


You Can't Always Get What You Want

by Chat_Noir (Chat_Noir12)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alpha Ian Gallagher, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Homophobic Language, M/M, Omega Mickey Milkovich, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24621109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chat_Noir12/pseuds/Chat_Noir
Summary: It's week five of quarantine and Mickey hasn't had his heat suppressors in weeks. All he wants is to keep to himself and hopefully avoid any alpha pheromones that might propel him into an unwanted heat. But that annoying red-headed alpha from downstairs is making it damn near impossible to avoid the inevitable.This fic can now be found in Russian at: https://ficbook.net/readfic/10268717
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 226
Kudos: 737





	1. But If You Try Sometime

_Fuck_.

Mickey purses his lips into a thin line and takes a ragged breath in through his nose. _That fucking alpha from the second floor, stinking up the goddamn laundry room—again!_

_Goddammit!_

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut tight, trying to push away what’s about to happen through sheer force of will, but he can feel himself getting wet, unable to control his body's reaction to the warm, spicy smell of the giant, ginger asshole who lives in the apartment just below his.

_Fucking quarantine. Fucking ‘Rona._

The virus had truly upended the world. There were shortages of everything, from toilet paper to pork, but the pharmaceutical industry had been hit especially hard, being that most medications sold in the US were produced and imported from China. Prices and supply chains had already been affected by that orange menace in the White House—all his idiotic foreign trade _bullshit_ —but now five weeks into lockdown and some things are damn near impossible to find. Mickey doesn’t give a shit about not being able to get bread or meat or hand sanitizer. What he cares about most, and which are now in short supply, are heat suppressors. He needs them and he needs them _now_.

Mickey knows his heat is coming. He hasn’t had any suppressants in nearly two weeks after staving off his cycle for almost two years—about six months longer than is recommended. Since then he has been avoiding other people more vigilantly than ever—not because he’s such an upstanding citizen and trying to maintain proper social distancing, but because he doesn’t need any jacked up knothead catching a whiff of his pheromones and getting any bright ideas. He also doesn’t want to be exposed to anyone else's stink and accidentally get activated, causing him to go into a heat before all this isolation shit can end. That would mean having to deal with it alone. The few alphas he knows who he could _maybe_ tolerate for the duration of his heat are fuck knows where—on lockdown just like everyone else, waiting for this modern bullshit plague to pass. So unless he gets some more suppressants soon… _Shit is gonna fucking suck_.

And then there is that big redheaded alpha on the second floor, leaving a trail of his stink behind him everywhere he goes, making it impossible for Mickey to stick to his plan of avoiding alpha pheromones. And it seems like he is always around. _Christ, he's so annoying. So smiley and friendly._

_And fucking hot. Fuck him for being so fucking hot._

Mickey doesn’t think any of his neighbors know he’s an omega, including Hot Howdy Doody. Mickey’s natural surliness has mostly kept him from having to interact up close and personal with anyone in his building, even before all this “at least six feet apart” bullshit happened. Not to mention up until recently it had been relatively easy for Mickey to hide his scent with the suppressors and a few other little tricks.

It isn’t that he’s ashamed of being an omega. He isn’t trying to fool anyone, exactly, but he also isn’t looking to attract anyone—isn’t looking to mate. So as far as Mickey is concerned it’s easier to just suppress his pheromones rather than deal with all the drama that inevitably comes attached to other people and human relationships. And _mating._

_But that dumbass, freckle-faced ginger…_

He’s always waving and smiling and saying "hi" with a big dopey grin on his stupid, gorgeous face. It puts Mickey on edge and makes him feel like a little bitch every time he ducks and all but runs from the guy. But he isn’t looking to invite any complications into his life—even if in this case the complication would be six feet of walking, talking sex.

Gallagher is his name— _Ian_ —and Mickey vaguely remembers him from the old neighborhood, but they had definitely run in different circles back then. All he can really recall is that he was the goofy-lookin’, goody two-shoes alpha fag from a giant family full of alphas. _Fuck all them too._ But he didn't _know_ the kid back then—all floppy hair and lanky limbs and dorky, crooked smile—and he doesn’t know this annoyingly hot grown-up version of him neither.

What he _does_ know, but doesn’t want to admit, is that Gallagher’s stupid alien-lookin’ face and spicy alpha scent—cardamom, cinnamon, cayenne—have been grabbing at him for months, scratching at his brain and causing a low, near-constant ache deep down in his guts. Mickey has been skillfully ignoring all of that in favor of maintaining his utter annoyance with the whole situation. It’s easier that way, and something that through years of practice his psyche will allow him to do. _Suppress, push it down, deny._ Anything else is out of the question.

Of course, you wouldn't be able to tell that they don’t know each other by the way Gallagher acts. He’d even started leaving Mickey shit outside his door a few weeks into the whole quarantine thing. Being fucking "neighborly", or whatever. Leftover food he made that he didn’t want to go to waste— _at least according to his stupid little handwritten notes._ The obnoxiously florescent Post-It attached to the first gift of nourishment had come with a little message letting Mickey know that he had been tested and was clean and hadn't had contact with anyone in weeks, “so please accept this friendly gesture”— _like, what the fuck?_ And what made it worse was that when he’d finally broken down and dug into the Tupperware full of homemade pot roast it had been really fucking delicious, as was all of the food Gallagher had left on his doorstep since.

_What an asshole._

Another time he’d left Mickey a care package— _a fucking care package_ —with toilet paper and hand sanitizer, and some baby wipes, and antimicrobial soap, and a few other random household items. That one had come with a little card that simply read "be well", scribbled in Gallagher’s now distinctively messy scrawl. Mickey had been dumbfounded. He’d looked up and down the hall to see if there was shit left out in front of anyone else's door, but it seemed that the redhead’s neighborliness didn’t extend to anyone else on the third floor, at least not that day.

He’d caught sight of the guy hanging around in the stairwell later that same week when he’d been heading out for a smoke. Gallagher had looked like he was about to sprint up the stairs to talk to him when Mickey panicked, the memory of which still makes him grit his teeth and scowl, and had done an abrupt about-face, forgetting all about his much-needed nicotine fix as he shouted down over his shoulder, "Thanks for the food and stuff, man, but uh– you don't gotta do that shit. I uh– forgot somethin’…gotta go!" He’d ran back up to the third floor and dashed into the relative safety of his apartment, flushed and panting more than was warranted from a single flight of stairs, half expecting to hear an alpha paw on the door, and almost disappointed when he didn't.

So, yeah, Gallagher is nice enough and pretty easy on the eyes, and yeah, his alpha scent is fucking borderline intoxicating, but Mickey just really isn’t interested in making friends with _anyone_. Especially not with some sunshiny Mary Poppins alpha _fuck_ from his building, who seems so friendly and sweet it practically makes Mickey’s molars ache. _Shit’s not natural._ Mickey is just trying to keep his head down, stay out of trouble, and not have to deal with all the complexities and messiness of human relationships. _So fuck that guy._

_But god damn does he smell amazing._

Mickey can tell where Gallagher’s laundry had been sitting, the scent so strong he can practically see where his dirty clothes had been strewn out on the counter. He leaves his own laundry bag on the floor—drops it—and starts moving as if in a trance towards the counter top. It looks like it had once been white, worn now in some spots more than others and yellowed. It’s chipped around the lip—pieces bitten out of it by time. He runs his hands across the smooth, cool surface. There are tiny silver flecks in the laminate that capture his gaze and he sees them getting closer to his face as Gallagher’s spicy, musky odor fills his nostrils completely and overwhelms his every sense, his eyes fluttering closed. His left cheek comes down to rest on the countertop as his palms lay flat, arms outstretched on the cool surface. He takes another breath, inhaling deeply and letting out a ragged sigh. Mickey's eyes roll back in his head and he feels a gush of slick flow out of his hole, soaking his underwear and creating a wet spot in his jeans.

 _FUCK!_ The shock of his own wetness snaps him back to reality. He bolts up and quickly spins around to make sure he is still alone. _Fuck this. Fuck laundry. Fuck that fucking alpha. Fuck the Rona. Godammit!_

Mickey grabs his laundry bag up off the floor and stomps hurriedly out of the room, heart thumping wildly in his chest as he races back up the stairs to his apartment, cursing under this breath and praying to whatever god might be listening that he not run into anyone before he gets there. _There's no hiding this now._ He is almost positive that his scent is permeating through the stairwell doors and down each hall.

First floor. Second floor. Third floor. _Fuck_.

By the time he gets to his hallway he’s practically breathless. _Fuck fuck fuck._ He fumbles with his keys, hands shaking, but finally manages to get inside, slamming the door shut behind him and collapsing against it, panting and sweating and aching.

The guttural moan that slips past his lips is involuntary. His mind is racing.

_The fuck am I gonna do?_

***

Ian knew his broody, sometimes angry and determinedly avoidant neighbor was going to be in the laundry room later that day. The man was like clockwork. He did his laundry every Tuesday without fail. _Probably because no one else did their laundry on Tuesdays._

Ian wasn’t stalking him. He wouldn't call it that. He was just…observant.

Like over the past 5 weeks he has observed that Mickey leaves his apartment and goes down to the sorry excuse for a "yard" out behind their building to smoke exactly four times a day. 9:00 am, 1:00 pm, 5:00 pm, and 10:00 pm. Ian has idly wondered if the dark-haired man is really able to moderate his fixes like that or if he is secretly sneaking smokes in his apartment too. _Huh_.

And before the stay at home orders had gone into effect, Ian had casually observed that Mickey would go grocery shopping every Wednesday night, and that he worked every Thursday through Sunday. He still isn’t exactly sure what he does, but he’d observed that Mickey would leave for the day pretty casually dressed and come back still clean most evenings by six, so he’d at least ruled out corporate lawyer, construction worker, and pro-wrestler. Occasionally he would return home a little worse for the wear, his eyes red with exhaustion and black hair sticking up on end like he’d spent hours running frustrated fingers through it. And sometimes—probably at least once a week to be honest—his neighbor would come home much later than usual and obviously drunk, zigzagging up the sidewalk to their building and typically missing the lock with his key no less than three times. So he’d observed.

Ian has also observed that Mickey has no friends to speak of, is grouchy as a motherfucker, and that he is definitely, categorically, no doubt about it, an omega. _A sexy, kinda stocky, angry little omega._ And Ian is enamored.

So yeah, Ian was pretty damn positive that Mickey would be down to do his laundry later that day when he dumped his own dirty clothes on the counter and started moving about the small room, subtly scenting it. He wanted to make sure that Mickey would be completely surrounded by his smell so that maybe, just maybe, Mickey would subconsciously recognize it and be willing to open his door the next time Ian was on the other side of it .

His intentions were not nefarious. Sure, he sometimes fantasized about burying his nose in the shorter man’s neck, imagined licking it, pictured kissing him— _who wouldn't with those big, pouty lips_ —but that was not all he wanted. His most persistent fantasy was almost embarrassingly simple. It was just the two of them sitting down together at a kitchen table, Mickey eating some dish that Ian had prepared for them, and them talking late into the night. Maybe there’d be some dessert, and maybe it would lead to more, but that was rarely what he focused on. Ian just wanted to feed him, and listen to him talk, and get lost in his pretty blue eyes. He was so smitten it _hurt_.

Unfortunately most of the time when their paths actually crossed Mickey seemed to be practically running from him—though to be fair Mickey didn't really seem to get too near to anyone, so Ian tried not to take it too personally.

At first he’d actually thought Mickey was an alpha like him. He’d assumed that the less than friendly reception he’d received upon moving into the building some seven months ago was just natural competitiveness and posturing—Mickey’s alpha sniffing out and sizing up Ian’s. Even still, Ian had immediately found him attractive, especially struck by his dark hair and how it contrasted with his pale skin and hard blue eyes. There was also something achingly familiar about him that he couldn’t quite place, but he wasn’t completely infatuated with the guy or anything—not at first anyway.

No, Ian’s attraction grew slowly over the first few months: running into Mickey in the laundry room and at the mailboxes, observing him interact (or more often not interact) with the other residents of their small complex. Over time, Mickey’s grumpy, guarded attitude became something almost endearing to Ian, until he found himself cautiously enjoying the way Mickey would grunt and wave off his greetings or purposely try to avoid eye contact with him. And Ian was positive that on more than a few occasions he had actually caught Mickey’s eyes giving him a sideways once over, scanning him from top to bottom when he thought Ian wouldn’t see. It made Ian flush with pleasure and giggle, sometimes soft and under his breath and sometimes unintentionally loud, being completely amused by the fact that the shorter man thought he was being sly.

But it wasn’t until the middle of his fourth month or so living in the building that Ian had his big _a-ha!_ moment—two revelations coinciding to make him realize that he was positively, undeniably, hopelessly crushed out on Mickey Milkovich.

Over the course of those first three and a half months at his new apartment complex, Ian had slowly been exposed to the delicious aroma of warm vanilla sugar that he instinctively knew was coming off of some omega in the building—sweet like candy and warm on his tongue. He couldn’t be certain it was another man, though he had a sense that it was and the very thought of it elated him and he had wondered what sweet, delicious omega was making that smell.

It had taken him weeks just to figure out that Betty, the super’s wife, was the only omega in the building. _Well, that anyone knew about._ But the scent was certainly not hers and Ian was more determined than ever to find the source of the smell that was making warm swirling butterflies flutter around in his belly. He even set out once in the middle of the night like a bloodhound, trying to distinguish where the scent was stronger and where it grew weaker. As he stalked through the dim hallways that night like a man possessed he had desperately prayed that no one would suddenly step out from their apartment and catch him with his nose to their doorknob, because he honestly had no idea how he would explain it.

So after several months with the object of his desire still a mystery to him, things were finally about to change. On a cold and otherwise unremarkable winter day in the middle of January, Ian had been trudging home from the L after having worked a brutal twenty-four hour shift, delirious with exhaustion and anxious to get to bed, when he’d caught the scent for the first time outside the walls of his apartment building. He had felt his pupils dilate and his mouth begin to salivate immediately, his head snapping up to see his grouchy, black-haired neighbor walking just a few yards in front of him, green knitted scarf flapping around his neck in the biting wind. _Holy shit. Is it him?_ That sweet sugary vanilla smell was definitely stronger towards the third floor—Ian had determined at least that much from his impulsive and ill-conceived midnight prowl.

_Mickey lives on the third floor…_

Ian had tried to maintain his distance, but his legs being longer and his eagerness to chase that smell had meant he had to keep stopping so he didn’t catch up to Mickey and maybe even start circling him and rubbing up against like some untrained adolescent pup. The normally short walk had felt endless and in his eagerness he had slipped and almost fell to his death on the icy sidewalk more than once.

He had painstakingly kept pace with Mickey all the way to their building, entering only a few moments after him. Mickey had stopped at the mailboxes where Ian’s neighbor and hallmate Cheryl was already shamelessly hitting on Mickey. Ian hung back near the front door pretending to look through his bag, not quite sure what to do with himself, but now convinced that the omega he had been hunting for all this time was indeed Mickey. _Oh god, was it him? Oh god, and if it is him, is he…_ “I’m fucking gay,” Mickey had barked suddenly at the female alpha, expression glaring and eyebrows raised high until she finally flipped her long black hair with finely manicured fingernails, turned and walked away, seemingly unphased. “That’s right, Kim Kardashian. Big ole mo!” he yelled at the back of her head.

_Gay. Mickey is gay and he is the omega I have been searching for. Holy fuck._

Ian could barely contain his excitement. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning—or what he always imagined kids who had “normal” upbringings felt like coming down the stairs to see a tree surrounded by presents. Giddy, elated, excited, and smiling so damn hard his cheeks hurt. He just couldn’t understand how no one else had sniffed Mickey out because his sweetly intoxicating smell grabbed hold of Ian every day, everywhere he walked in the building where their paths would or could cross. It seemed so _obvious now._

He spent the next two months “observing” the brunette more than ever, trying to come up with a plan and figure out the best strategy for approaching the brunette, for wooing him. Just simply being friendly or being in the right place at the right time definitely wasn’t going to cut it. Although Ian was sure that the other man checked him out on occasion, he clearly couldn’t rely on his puppy dog charm and hot body to so easily win Mickey over. Ian wasn’t used to having to try so hard and having to chase. Honestly, he was the one usually being pursued, so he was in unchartered territory.

Then, before Ian had a chance to do anything, really, quarantine happened. And about 3 weeks after that Ian hadn’t been able to get the blockers he took that kept him from stinking up a room with his alpha pheromones, and Mickey had obviously run out of his own suppressants as well. Five weeks into quarantine and his omega scent was suddenly raging, shocking Ian into understanding that maybe others really hadn’t been able to smell him before all this. But for whatever reason Ian _had_ , and it had already been driving him practically drooling mad for months. Now, without the suppressants, Ian was fucking _gone_. Mickey’s scent was electric. An addiction. It made all of Ian’s senses tingle and the very air around him charged.

Ian would trail his nose up the handrail in the stairwell after Mickey had been there, or over the front door of the building, or along the last washing machine Mickey had used, getting drunk on the omega’s pheromones, the chemicals from Mickey swirling with his own and making it harder and harder to think. _Fuck, he just smelled so good._

Now, after almost six months of friendly “hi neighbors” and “howsit going todays”, and another five weeks of congenial gestures and being practically trapped together in the same building twenty-four seven, of chasing Mickey's intense smell and making no real headway with the gifts he left outside his door, Ian is making one last ditch effort before he officially gives up.

He knows he is probably already bordering on being a total fucking creeper—he _knows_ that—but he also can’t just explain away the bone deep _pull_ he feels towards the other man. The twist he feels deep in his belly every time he thinks about Mickey eating the food he left for him. Every time he imagines caring for him and talking to him and _knowing_ him.

He can’t really explain any of it when they hadn’t even exchanged fully formed sentences in all the time they had been acquainted, but somewhere deep inside of him, somewhere only his alpha really has access to, Ian _feels_ it. And it is possessing him.

At this point, all he hopes is that Mickey will come down to do his laundry in a few hours and be softened towards him by the alpha essence he is clouding the room with. Hopes that it will be sufficient to make Mickey feel safe enough to open the door when Ian comes knocking.

Ian hopes because he _really_ doesn’t want to give up.

***

Mickey is burning up.

Heat rises from deep in his belly and radiates out to his limbs. Wave after wave. It climbs through his chest and up his neck and sets his face on fire. It feels like a hundred little pins are pricking his scalp, and his ears— _his ears!_ —are _throbbing_ with heat. Sweat starts pouring down his body and slick flows freely from his hole. _And the ache!_ Fuck, the ache is building and he knows it’s going to completely knock him down. Make him weak. Make him vulnerable. He’s kept his body from having a heat for too long and now it’s coming on with a vengeance. He feels desperate, scared, alone, and kinda really fucking angry.

It takes every ounce of strength he has left to move away from the door and pull the water pitcher down from the top shelf of his fridge. He curls up in a ball right there on the cool tile, chugging the cold water and spilling at least half of it on his face and neck, but he doesn’t care. It feels like Heaven, offering momentary relief as he folds into himself and moans and spits through gritted teeth, "God, I hope I don't fucking die!"

And all the while, through the haze and the heat that feels like it’s slowly starting to melt his brain, is a single, persistent thought, pulsing somewhere behind his eyes near his temples: the fear that his scent is too strong and that his heat pheromones might bring alphas to his door.

He knows he can’t be the only person whose supply of suppressants is already long gone. _What if one of the alphas in the building catches a whiff of him? Or even just some jackass passing by on the street for that matter. And what if they haven’t taken whatever it is that alphas take to keep them from being total fucking assholes?_ Then would basic instincts kick in? Would their primal urges lead them to his door? Is he safe?

Fuck, he feels stupid. Feels paranoid.

He starts taking inventory.

The alpha right next door is a sixty-five year old woman who couldn’t give two fucks about him. They’ve lived next to each other for two years and haven’t even bothered to exchange names. All he knows about her is that she has an omega niece who comes over every three months and tries to convince the old bag to live with her and her two really annoying kids. All four of them get obnoxiously loud to the point that Mickey has to pound on the wall and tell them to shut the fuck up. Kids and all. _Fuck ‘em._

The resident in 3C is some surly emo chick who’s maybe more unfriendly than him, always scowling at everyone and practically hissing when anyone greets her, which in some weird way makes Mickey like her just a tiny bit more than the old bag next door. He knows very little about her either, except that she’s a beta and that she probably keeps the corner drug store in business just from her purchases of boxed hair dye, black nail polish, and Wet n’ Wild eyeliner alone.

First floor is the property manager, George, who’s an older, but still pretty imposing looking alpha, but he lives with his wife—Betsy? something like that—a sweet little round, five-foot-one omega, who definitely owns his ass. He isn’t going anywhere.

The second floor is more complicated. There’s that alpha bitch who’s maybe in her early thirties and who definitely wants to bang him. He knows ‘cos of the number of times she’s pawed at him and told him as much. "I’m fucking gay!" he’d yelled bluntly at her in the middle of the foyer in front of the mailboxes earlier in the year, finally snapping after her fourth or fifth advance that month. She had simply shrugged and sauntered off smiling. It was weird.

There’s also the blond Frat Boy in 2B. Mickey forgot his name almost as soon as he’d learnt it, just calls him Frat Boy—sometimes to his face. He doesn’t know for sure, but Mickey thinks he might be an alpha too. That or he’s just a really insecure beta trying hard to overcompensate. Regardless, he’s a giant fucking meathead, so Mickey _really_ hopes he’s just some pathetic alpha-poser at this point. _And why are there so many fucking alphas in their building anyway. It's a fucking statistical anomaly._

And finally, right there in 2A, in the apartment directly below his, is Ian fucking Gallagher. _That Southside Irish fuck._

As soon as the image of Gallagher crosses his mind Mickey gets a deep pain in the pit of his stomach and his hole contracts, _pulses_ even, causing a fresh wave of slick to pour out of him.

"Fuck!" he howls, biting down onto a clenched fist to help muffle his groans, praying that alpha fuckhead doesn’t somehow hear him through the floorboards. "Oh, _fuck_ I really don't want that asshole comin’ up here," he gasps to himself, even while aching for him deeply and desperately and hoping that the asshole actually will.

***

Ian has spent the last few hours preparing something he really hopes Mickey will like. He’s banking on him being a pretty simple meat and potatoes guy, whipping up mashed potatoes from scratch— _none of that boxed shit!_ —and grilling a couple steaks out on his tiny balcony, rare and bloody. He figures if that isn’t how Mickey likes it at least you can always cook a steak more, you can’t cook it any less. He reasoned they should have a vegetable too—if for nothing else than to make the plate look pretty—so he’s cut up and steamed some fresh broccoli, topping it with grated cheese ‘cos… _well, why not?_

He plates everything up and wraps foil around the dishes, grabbing a six pack of beer out of the fridge—he leaves the whiskey on the counter, figuring he can always come back for it if things go well—and starts to head upstairs to apartment 3A.

As soon as he opens the door to the stairwell he’s almost knocked flat off his feet by a smell so sweet his teeth immediately start to ache. He can _taste_ it in the back of his throat, and for a minute he can hardly breathe. _Holy hell, how did I not smell this before? It's everywhere._ It’s saturating the railing and seeping up out of the carpeted stairs. The smell is so thick it feels like it’s dripping off the walls, fogging up Ian’s brain and making it hard to think.

_What is that?_

He tries to settle his suddenly racing pulse and catch his breath, squeezing his eyes closed and scrunching up his face in concentration. He’s still struggling to accomplish either when he feels a sudden twisting in his belly and then it hits him. _Caramelized sugar._ Almost burnt, but still sweet. Like what you get when you take raw brown sugar and melt it down with soft, creamy butter. Caramelized like the candy coating on yams or the topping of a pineapple upside down cake. Like the strongest, sweetest smell Ian’s ever held in his lungs. _Like_ —his eyes fly open— _oh my god._

“Mickey,” he breathes out, gasping.

Ian is rooted in place, not sure what he should do. If what’s happening is what he thinks is happening then Mickey might not want him there. He might feel intruded upon, might be scared.

Or he might not be alone. _Fuck_.

But the smell. That heady, sweet, delicious smell…

His throat burns and his nostrils flare. Ian can feel himself salivating, and a low rumbling growl is growing in his throat.

Before he knows it his body is carrying him up the stairs of its own accord. He doesn’t even remember walking. It feels like he’s glided up to Mickey's apartment, his feet never touching the ground—like a cartoon character floating across the screen, eyes closed and guided by the smell of something promising to be delicious. _Mickey smells fucking delicious._ And then almost like magic he’s standing at Mickey's door knocking.

"Mickey," he calls out in a calm tone, but at a volume loud enough to be heard throughout Mickey's small studio apartment. "Mickey, can I come in? I brought some food."

He hears some shuffling and a pained groan from inside.

"Go away, Gallagher."

Mickey’s voice comes through the door low and strained and hardly convincing. A second later Ian hears another moan and what sounds like muffled whining.

"You don't sound so good." Ian puts his forehead to the door, legitimately worried. "Let me in. Let me help you."

Ian waits a few moments but hears nothing more from the other man but a faintly whispered “fuck” and more of that desperate, pained whining that causes something in Ian’s chest to tighten uncomfortably.

Without meaning to, without warning, Ian hears himself start to growl. It comes from deep in his chest this time, vibrating around that tightness near his heart.

"Mickey, let me in." His alpha takes over, commanding Mickey's omega to let him through the door with a deep rumbling voice.

There’s a quiet pause, almost like Mickey is trying his best to resist, and then in a raspy voice he yells, "It's fucking open, you asshole!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone! This is my first time writing fanfic and my first attempt at ABO. It is mostly written so it shouldn't take me long to get the rest of it out. I've had some wonderful help from my friend, Sam, and want to thank her for her editing skills. I couldn't have done it without you!!!
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys it.
> 
> P.S. anyone who signed on for the smut, don't worry it's coming. No pun intended.


	2. You Just Might Find

Ian shoulders open the door and uses his foot to slam it shut behind him. He stands in Mickey’s small entranceway for several long seconds, chest heaving and saliva pooling around his teeth as he’s hit with another heavy wave of Mickey’s scent. He breathes through the wild, unfamiliar feeling swirling in his gut— _want, need,_ _mine_ —and lets his eyes scan the room. He immediately sees Mickey lying half-naked in a pile on the kitchen floor, t-shirt obviously and literally ripped off his flushed torso, part of one of the sleeves still hanging around his right bicep.

"Oh, fuck!" Ian rushes forward, dropping everything in his hands on the kitchen table and falling to his knees next to Mickey. "Are you ok?" Ian's breathing is desperate and he’s unconsciously panting.

"Are you fucking serious?!" The omega’s dark hair is drenched with sweat and he’s clutching his knees to his chest, but still he manages to fix Ian with a derisive glare. "Do I fucking look okay? And fuck you, using that alpha shit with me. I'll fuckin’ stab you, bitch!"

"I didn't mean to," Ian tells him desperately, holding his hands out toward Mickey in surrender but being sure not to touch him. "It– it just happened. My alpha. Your smell. I mean…" Ian stutters over his words and shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he finishes lamely, but he means it, and when Mickey looks up into Ian’s steady, puppy-eyed gaze he knows he means it. 

"You run out of your anti-asshole juice?" Mickey keeps looking up at him through squinted lids.

"I—yeah. I did," Ian answers him honestly. "Like, two weeks ago. Think it's almost totally out of my system now." He looks down, sitting back on his knees. He can feel his pupils are pulled and he can’t help his shallow panting or the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. He’s sure that Mickey is aware of all of it and he feels guilty, despite knowing he has no real control over it.

Just then Mickey cries out and starts to buck in pain, the ache too intense. Having Ian right in front of him makes his omega scream, his body reacting fiercely to Ian's alpha. "Motherfucker!"

Ian’s forehead creases with worry and he has to practically sit on his own hands to stop himself from reaching out and taking Mickey into his arms.

"Let me help you," Ian all but begs, his eyes trailing over Mickey’s writhing, sweat-soaked body with open concern. He feels another tight pull in his chest and without meaning to, begins to send out a comforting aura that seems to fall over Mickey like a blanket. It’s all instinct, and he’s never experienced his body doing this before, but it feels right. Feels natural. "I won't hurt you,” he promises. “And if I start to do anything you don't want me to, just tell me to stop."

"And if you can’t fuckin’ stop?" Mickey lifts his head off the linoleum to bark at Ian, eyebrows arched, expression fierce and accusatory. His crystal blue eyes are full of suspicion, but tight, ringed with something wild and vulnerable. _Fear_. 

Mickey watches as something he can’t name passes behind Ian’s wide, earnest eyes and his freckled face becomes, if possible, even more open and sincere, his gaze never leaving Mickey’s. "Then you can stab me," Ian says with no trace of humor in his voice, and Mickey knows he means that too. _Fuck_.

Mickey blows out a harsh breath, rolling his eyes in resignation even as another wave of heat rolls through his guts and across his skin, setting his pores on fire. "Then get me a fuckin’ knife and help me to the goddamn bed."

Ian complies immediately, getting on his haunches and scooping Mickey up, cradling him in his arms like he’s wanted to since the moment he first stepped inside the apartment.

“Jesus, what—put me down, shithead! I can fuckin’ walk," Mickey splutters, insisting.

Ian shakes his head, looking down at Mickey with a slight smile. “No, Mickey, you can’t. And this is a studio and your bed is right there. Just—let me do this.” Ian grabs a large steak knife from an open drawer and then carefully gets a better hold on Mickey, and he swings them up and around towards his bed.

Without meaning to—without thinking about it—Mickey throws his arms around Ian’s neck and finds his nose buried there, inhaling him deeply. Inhaling the spice. He pulls back just enough to see a bead of sweat starting to trail down redhead’s neck just below his ear. Mickey hyper focuses on it and then runs his tongue up the alpha’s neck, tasting his sweat, tasting him, and he opens his mouth wider to take the tender flesh in, feeling calmed and comforted by it.

Ian shudders beneath Mickey’s tongue, his lips, his _teeth_. He tries to focus on where he’s going but his eyes feel fuzzy. Everything has a silver glow around it and things at the edge of his vision are tilting and unfocused. Everything is moving in slow motion and it seems to take forever to cross the short twenty-five feet to the omega's bed. When they finally get there Ian drops the knife on the nightstand and tries to put Mickey down slowly and gently, but Mickey doesn’t release the hold he has on Ian’s neck and pulls him down with him, cradling Ian between his legs and letting out a deliciously sexy moan. He feels Mickey run his hands up to tangle his fingers in his red hair and Ian has to squeeze his eyes shut for a minute to help ground himself. But Mickey just continues petting at him, twisting his hair between his fingers, crushing his lips and tongue even harder against Ian’s neck, then rolling Ian's skin between his teeth.

"Fuck, Mickey," Ian growls. The rumble vibrates Mickey's lips and teeth, and slick gushes from his opening that is begging to be filled. He gnaws on Ian's neck until it is red and purple, swollen in some places. Mickey tightens his grip on the alpha, squeezing him with his thick, strong thighs, using the heels of his feet to push Ian's groin closer to his own. 

" _Alpha_ …" Mickey is gone in the moment and gasps brokenly in Ian's ear, "I need you." He detangles one hand from Ian’s ginger hair and lets his fingers crawl along the redhead’s back and dig into his flesh through his tight t-shirt as Mickey sucks on his earlobe. "I need you, Alpha… _Ian_." 

Ian is shaking, his ears ringing with the sound of his own name falling out of Mickey’s lips. It has all the blood in his body rushing south all at once, making him dizzy. He’s fighting his instincts, fighting his urge to rip off Mickey's jeans and thrust into him with no regard. At the same time he _hears_ Mickey. Hears his desperation and wants to give him what he needs. He wants to take the ache away. Take care of him.

" _Omega_ …"

Ian ghosts his lips over Mickey's neck and bare shoulder and starts to snarl. For just a second he laves his tongue over Mickey’s hot, sweat-slicked skin and his snarl builds back to a growl. He wraps his arms around Mickey's back and begins to rock against him, occasionally grinding down in a circular motion, distantly aware through the disorderly haze created by being this close to Mickey that his cock is swelling from the possibilities that are now presenting beneath him.

And the deeper the alpha's grumbling, the more the omega whines. All the pain Mickey was feeling before is gone, but the ache and pulse in his canal still remains. And Mickey is still burning hot, his heat radiating out and seeping into Ian's body.

Something suddenly triggers Ian and he pulls back, pushing himself up as best as he can with Mickey still latched on, pulling red hair, clawing at the nape of the alpha's neck.

"Mickey!" Ian is panting desperately, his voice strung out and wild. "Mickey, please." Ian sits back on his knees, Mickey coming with him as he trails his teeth and tongue across his Adam’s apple and the ginger's swollen, scorching throat. 

"What?!" he snaps against the thin skin beneath Ian’s jaw. Mickey is the one snarling now, his omega agitated by his alpha trying to pull away.

 _His Alpha. Ian will be his Alpha._ The thought filters through Mickey’s clouded and heat-muddled mind, but he is barely conscious of its meaning.

"You’re way too hot. You shouldn’t be this hot. We have to cool you down." Ian is pleading with him as Mickey straddles his lap and pushes down on Ian's hardness straining inside his tight jeans.

"No." Mickey's tone is defiant and angry. He doesn't get why he doesn't have Ian's cock inside of him already. "Fuck me. I need you to fuck me, Alpha, and fill me up. Your cum'll cool me down." His voice is low and aggressive, but also seductive as he weaves both hands back into Ian's hair and smashes his lips against Ian's mouth without warning, forcing his tongue inside.

Ian gasps and his mouth falls open, sucking in Mickey’s air. Their lips mold perfectly together, making it somehow feel familiar, somehow feel right, Mickey’s lips being the piece of the puzzle Ian’s lips have been missing. Mickey kisses him deep and wet. It's rough and sloppy and feels like everything Ian has ever wanted. He has Mickey in his arms, in his mouth, and grinding down on his cock, which is now at full mast and feels ready to go off—and Ian pulls away. Not wanting to—his whole body screaming at him to do anything but—but knowing he has to take care of his omega.

 _His Omega._ The thought sends an almost violent ripple of pleasure through Ian’s entire body and makes the tissue and skin around his heart start to burn and throb.

"I wanna fuck you.” Ian rests his forehead against Mickey’s, panting harshly against his swollen lips. “ _God_ I want to fuck you so bad, and I'll do it if you still want me to, but _after_.” He runs his hands up Mickey’s arms, across his shoulders, up the sides of his neck, cupping his flushed checks, fingers curling around his scorching ears. “You're fuckin' burning up. Your body shouldn't be at this temperature—you're almost too hot to touch, Mickey."

"What are you, a fuckin’ doctor?" Mickey pulls back further to snarl in Ian’s face, exasperated, soaking wet and needy.

"No, you little shit. I'm an EMT." Ian pushes Mickey off of him and slides down the bed. "And I know you’re too hot because I've dealt with this before. It's fuckin' dangerous!"

"Fuuuck!" Mickey kicks his legs out furiously and grounds his fists into his thighs as he falls back on the bed like a tantruming child. But having Ian pull away and separate from him brings Mickey back to himself for a moment. He takes a few labored breaths and focuses on the ceiling and feels a sharp rush of fear flood through him when he realizes that Ian is right. "Oh, fuck."

Ian is already moving around the studio with purpose, finding towels and packing them with bags of frozen vegetables dug out from the back of the freezer. He wets a cloth and fills the pitcher left abandoned on the kitchen floor with ice water. He soaks a large towel, wringing it out and fitting it into the freezer. His movements are swift and methodical, but his brow is furrowed and his lips are a thin line. He looks worried.

Mickey is panting, his eyes now following Ian’s every move until he has to squeeze them closed at a sudden searing burn deep in his gut, the pain rushing back fiercely.

"Gallagher," he growls, "give me your fuckin’ shirt! I'm hurtin’." Mickey doubles over, the sharp stabs in his belly becoming too much to bear. And he _is_ hot. Fuck is he hot. Mickey starts to realize his whole body is on fire again, even worse than before. His face starts to tingle, like the skin is melting, and his eyeballs feel like they are boiling in their sockets. 

"Here!" Ian peels off his shirt and throws it to Mickey in one fluid motion, not needing to ask why. 

Mickey sits up on his knees and buries his nose in the soft green fabric, inhaling as deeply as possible and rubbing it all over his face and then down the curve of his throat, trying to consume Ian’s scent. He’s whimpering in agony from the lack of the alpha's touch and taste, but he can’t stop it, can’t control it. He puts the neck of the shirt between his teeth and shakes his head, growling and grumbling, breathing sharply through his nose while he holds it taut, gnashing madly at the fabric.

"Jesus, Mickey." Ian takes what seems like only four strides and is at the bed, arms full and face covered in concern.

Mickey stops his frenzied destruction of Ian's t-shirt and looks up at him with wide eyes, the fabric hanging in ribbons from his teeth. Ian sets the water down with a heavy hand and drops everything else on the bed.

"How long did you put off your heat?" Ian's tone is accusatory and bordering on menacing.

"Fuck you," Mickey fires back, dropping the ruined shirt onto the bed. "You don’t know me. The fuck do you care, bitch?" The aggression in his voice is unmistakable and it hits Ian hard.

Ian jumps on the bed, gnashing his teeth, chest rumbling. He pushes Mickey back forcefully, straddling him and holding him to the bed by his wrists. Ian brings his face inches from Mickey's own, his hot breath fanning across the omega's cheeks and rolling down his neck. They can taste each other, their thick, heady scents mingling in the air between them and creating an intense aura that surrounds the bed.

"I care because I've been chasing you around for over three months, smelling you and wanting you, practically licking you off everything you touch in this fucking place," he growls almost in Mickey's mouth. "I care because I wanted to get to know you and spend time with you, even feed you, way before you left a fucking trail of slick up the goddamn stairs," Ian continues, hissing and looking over Mickey's face with equal parts lust and agitation, his canines presenting unintentionally. "I care because I don't want you to die before I get a chance to put my cock in your tight ass and knot you, you little prick."

"Mmm, that's more like it, asshole." Mickey smiles devilishly and bucks up into Ian's crotch, gritting his teeth with a glint in his eyes. "Pull your cock out and fuck me."

Ian grinds down and digs his fingers into Mickey's wrists. His alpha is raging and he bites down roughly on Mickey's jaw, breathing wet and urgently.

"Yeah, do that–" Mickey is gasping, pushing himself up to feel the pressure of Ian's larger and more muscular body. But Mickey is radiating twice as much heat as before and it pours into Ian's mouth, scorching his lips.

"Fuck, Mickey!" Ian scurries off of him and jumps to the side of the bed. "We have to fucking cool you down! You could _die_ and I'm not gonna be responsible for– _Jesus_ , for fucking you to death!"

Mickey scoffs. "You wish, bitch. What—you think your dick is magic or some shit?"

Mickey falls back on the bed again, wriggling and puffing out in frustration. But he knows Ian is right, and that somehow makes him even angrier. He doesn’t want Ian to be right, he wants Ian to fuck him. He wants relief from the bad decisions he’s made that got him to this place. He starts to feel the heat again in his head and in his bowels. The pain isn't far behind and he goes into the fetal position and cries out.

"Mickey," Ian breathes softly, going down to his knees next to the bed. "Let me help you," he pleads with him for the second time in less than an hour, green eyes begging blue. "Please."

Mickey whimpers, breaking eye contact as he wraps his arms around his stomach and reluctantly nods.

That’s enough for Ian, and he immediately starts packing all of the frozen vegetables and ice-filled towels around Mickey—behind his neck, on his chest, between his thighs. He goes back to the kitchen and grabs the towel from the freezer, a glass, and a used straw he finds sticking up out of an empty McDonalds cup on the counter.

Ian quickly puts the towel on the crown of Mickey's head and then wraps it around his forehead. The relief Mickey feels is immediate and his mouth drops open with a grateful sigh. Ian takes the straw then and puts it in a glass of ice water and Mickey lets him bring it up to his parted lips. And fuck if he isn't thirsty. Mickey didn't know how thirsty he was until this moment. He drinks greedily, draining the glass in seconds.

"More," he gasps, looking up at Ian who is back on his knees beside the bed. Ian complies and refills the glass, bringing it to Mickey's lips once again.

After his fourth or fifth glass of water, and enough time for the frozen veggies and ice to start cooling his body, Mickey looks up at Ian, calmer and more collected. "I can hold the glass myself now." His breathing has started to steady and his eyes no longer feel like they’re about to liquefy, but he isn’t in the clear yet and he knows it.

Ian lets go of the glass, concern still etched into every feature on his face.

"How long?" he asks again simply, quietly.

Mickey keeps clutching onto the water but relaxes his head back against his wet pillow.

"Two years," he puffs out and closes his eyes. "Suppressed my heat for two years."

"Fuck." Ian sits back on his heels and lets out a ragged breath. "That's really fucking dangerous."

Mickey wants to tell him to fuck off, but he knows that Ian is right. He knows he's paying for trying to get the upper hand on his biology and he knows it could have killed him. Probably would have if he’d been alone. _Fuck this ginger prick_ — _but thank fucking god he's here._ Mickey just sighs deeply and buries the side of his face in the pillow. His heat is still causing his opening to ache and pulse and his stomach to clench, but right now it's not as harsh with Ian close by, his alpha emanating comfort and calm. He hates to admit it’s even better when Ian is touching him— _sure as shit ain’t gonna ask him to_ —but he knows it’s true and he has to try not to choke on the lump that this knowledge is forming in his throat.

Guided by something beyond thought, like a feeling flowing from the other man and into his subconscious, Ian takes the end of the cool towel wrapped around Mickey’s head and pulls a corner of it down to gently wipe Mickey’s cheeks and nose, dragging it lightly across his soft pillowy lips.

"You're beautiful," Ian says suddenly, mesmerized, and places his palm on Mickey's cheek, rubbing his thumb across his lips again.

Mickey just regards Ian silently, both aching to devour him and wanting to tell him to get fucked. He does neither. Instead, Mickey leans into the touch he didn’t realize he was craving, but probably had been for some time. He agonizes. Doesn’t want to let go. Doesn’t want to give in. _It doesn’t have to mean shit_ , he reasons. _You’re in heat_. _It doesn’t mean anything_ _._ But Ian’s touch feels so gentle and caring. So different, but so…natural. Nuzzling Ian's palm, he lets his eyes flutter closed and for the first time in Mickey’s life he lets go and he starts to purr.

Ian’s breath hitches and he feels a swelling in his chest when he hears and feels Mickey responding to him. He has a moment where he inexplicably has to blink back the sharp prickle of— _what?_ _tears? Jesus._ Ian has never experienced anything like this. He's been with other omegas during their heats—not a ton, but enough to know that what he’s feeling—the tingle around his body, the shimmering aura that seems to pulse in and out around them when they touch, the swirl of heat in his belly and that tightening in his chest—none of it is normal for him. These feelings of wanting to protect and care for, hold and comfort and, yes, fuck like a feral beast, were not just because Mickey was in heat and Ian was an unsuppressed alpha.

 _This is it. He's_ my _Omega._

But Ian knows better than to say any of that shit out loud. Talk about feral beasts. Mickey is the most aggressive, demanding, and forceful omega he has ever met. All piss and vinegar. Five feet, seven inches of angry, determined fire.

And Ian wants him to be his.

 _Fuck._ _This is insane._

Ian just hopes that by some great luck Mickey is even half as crazy as he is and maybe feels the same way.

***

Ian hasn’t left Mickey’s side, nursing him and monitoring him, encasing him with a calming aura and using purposeful touches to sooth him and subside his pain. Ian does this for however long it’s taken for all the frozen veggies and ice to melt and the towels to be discarded—an hour? Maybe five? Neither of them have any idea, and the flow of time is amorphous, made more convoluted by the mixing of their pheromones. Mickey's temperature has finally come down to something close to normal for an unsuppressed omega in heat, but the smell of his heat has been growing steadily stronger. It’s so potent now that Ian is starting to shift back and forth and grow restless, not wanting to move too fast, but definitely _wanting_. 

"Gallagher!" Mickey sits up abruptly, looking alarmed. Ian’s hand falls from Mickey’s shoulder where he’d been tracing his fingers in calming, deliberate patterns.

"Wha–"

Before Ian can even get a word out the door to the apartment flies open, crashing against the wall to reveal a big, growling and drooling alpha.

"You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!” Mickey shouts. “Guess you're not a poser after all, prick!" He doubles over almost immediately, fire searing through his guts, as Ian jumps up and moves away from him, placing himself between Mickey and the intruding, hormonal douchebag from the second floor. 

The two alphas stand facing off, eyes bulging, baring their fangs.

"Get OUT!" Ian is posturing aggressively and his voice is booming with so much bass it rattles the windows and Mickey's chest.

"I've been smelling that omega's sweet slick for hours now!" Frat Boy growls, jabbing his finger in the direction of the bed as his frenzied eyes are searching for a glimpse of Mickey over Ian’s shoulder, not advancing but not backing down either. "I want some!" His eyes turn black and his voice is thick and pushing out from his chest.

Ian's growl rumbles and grows, his alpha presence encompassing the whole room, filling it with his pheromones that are undeniably stronger and more overpowering than those of the idiot standing in front of him. Despite Mickey knowing how quickly this situation might escalate to something dangerous, his omega can’t help but preen a little, seeing Ian ready to fight for him.

"He's MINE!" Ian projects out, blowing hot breath and spit in the other man's face and forcing his attention back on him and away from his Omega.

The slobbering beast in front of Ian is either really brave or just too stupid to back down. Mickey watches as Frat Boy lunges at the redhead, flying up in his face. The two alphas are grabbing onto each other, baring teeth, snarling, spitting, howling, locked together.

Ian breaks the hold, pushing the other man away and hitting him with a left hook to the liver that causes him to howl out in pain. But the intruder recovers quickly and lunges back at him, slashing out and leaving deep cuts Ian can feel across his neck. Ian hisses and winds his right paw back in preparation to deliver another blow, but before he can connect there is a lightning-quick flash of silver and his rival suddenly cries out, hand flying up to a large, bloody gash that’s appeared on his left forearm. Ian whips his head around to find the angry dark haired omega on the other end of the knife Ian had left abandoned on the nightstand, clutching it tightly in his small fist, panting and spitting, eyes still focused on the feral alpha from 2B.

Frat Boy whimpers and looks stunned, cradling his arm that’s dripping with blood and stumbling back towards the door. Mickey expertly repositions his grip on the knife, preparing to stab his would be assailant, angling for his neck.

"Mickey, NO!" Snapping out of his own frenzied confusion, Ian grabs Mickey around the waist and swings him away from the other alpha. 

"I'm gonna fuckin’ kill him!" Mickey screams and spits. 

Ian struggles to wrench the knife away from Mickey, holding him off with one arm still tight around his waist as the smaller man scratches and hisses to get free. Ian turns to their neighbor in the doorway, his tone steady but laced with poison, as he points at him with the confiscated knife.

"He doesn't want you here. If you stay, the chances of you walking out of this apartment alive are zero to none, so I suggest you get the fuck out. And if you ever go anywhere near him again,” he pulls Mickey even tighter against his chest, hackles raised, “I promise you, you will die."

Frat Boy looks back and forth between the fierce redheaded alpha and the vicious little omega he has restrained in his arms, his face the perfect picture of bewilderment. His alpha has retreated, tail tucked between its legs, but still rooted in place. His hand holds the deep, nasty-looking gash on his arm, frozen in a state of shock. His mouth drops open as if to say something, but no sound comes out. Finally, after another few seconds of him standing there, gawking dumbly and fearfully, he shakes his head and slowly backs out of the open door, one palm out in a silent sign of surrender, eyes wide. Once out of the doorway he pivots and takes off into a sprint down the hall, clamoring loudly down the stairs. 

Ian doesn’t loosen his hold on the raging omega, who is none too happy about being restrained, and awkwardly frog walks them to the door. He slams it shut and secures all three locks, furious with himself for not thinking to do it earlier. He lobs the bloody knife toward the kitchen sink and then uses both hands to forcefully drag Mickey to the bed. Tossing him down, Ian straddles the still hissing and spitting, murderous smaller man. 

Ian pushes his body down on Mickey's, putting pressure on his groin and his heaving chest. He grips Mickey's elbows, securing them to the mattress with his palms on either side of Mickey’s torso. Mickey writhes underneath the ginger giant, trying to get away at first but then slowly settling, succumbing to the delicious friction of their two bodies pressed together.

"What the fuck was that?" Ian demands, not angry, but still not calm.

Mickey doesn't answer at first, surprising Ian by suddenly bucking up beneath him at the question and almost breaking out of his hold. Ian drops his full weight on top of him and brings his face closer, rubbing his jaw against Mickey's, scenting him and calming them both in the process.

"What _was_ that?" he whispers lowly against Mickey’s cheek.

Mickey slows his movement again and relaxes his arms, tilting his head back and presenting his neck. Ian kisses his Adam's apple, then opens his mouth and sucks on it gently. His hands slide up from Mickey's elbows and their fingers find each other, lacing together. Ian runs his tongue along the underside of Mickey's jaw until he gets to his ear. He alternates between sucking on the tender flesh of Mickey's earlobe and nibbling and tonguing the sensitive skin behind it. 

Mickey lets out a breathy moan and clutches Ian's fingers tightly. "Get between my legs," he orders.

Ian knows that many alphas would be enraged by an omega assuming to order them around like this. But he isn’t like other alphas. At least not with this omega. Everything with Mickey already feels different, and he smiles against the omega’s luscious skin as he starts devouring the pulsing flesh of his neck. He only wants to please the brave little omega beneath him and quickly obliges, parting Mickey's legs and lifting his hips just enough so that Ian’s growing bulge is flush against Mickey’s entrance that is still covered in wet, sticky denim.

Mickey wraps his legs around Ian and reaches up to thread his fingers into Ian’s ginger locks and pull him back down towards him. But instead of drawing him into a kiss like the alpha expects, Mickey tilts Ian's head to the side, exposing the angry red slashes left behind by his rival. He pulls Ian closer, locking his ankles around his lower back and squeezing him tightly. He runs his tongue along the cuts, lapping at the wounds, then mouthing deeper at Ian’s bloodied skin. Mickey scratches at Ian's back while he tries to erase those left behind by the other alpha.

"He hurt you," Mickey mumbles into Ian's neck. 

"I'm fine–"

"No." Mickey pulls away and lies back so he can look Ian in the eye. "That's what that was. Why I did that. ‘Cos he hurt you." His eyes roam around Ian's face, taking in his surprised expression. "I couldn't stop myself," Mickey admits exhaling raggedly, shaking his head and closing his eyes. He can’t believe he is having these overwhelming feelings. "As soon as he drew blood I wanted to kill him. _Would_ have fuckin’ killed him. You were taking care of me and–” Mickey lets out a deep sigh and forces his eyes back open, blue immediately locking on green, “–and he _hurt_ you."

Mickey hears the hitch in Ian’s breath right before he lays his body back down on top of his, their bare chests pressing them together. Mickey's heat starts rolling through him again, pushing out a fresh wave of omega essence. The ache returns, the burst of adrenaline from seeing his alpha attacked quickly wearing off where it had been naturally and ever so temporarily suppressing his heat. _His Alpha._

He wants to hate himself for thinking it. Wants to hate Ian. But he can't. He dismisses it to the hormones coursing through his body and reaches up to frame the sides of Ian’s face with his hands.

Ian's lips crack into a wide but gentle smile. He places his forehead on Mickey's. "You’re the most aggressive, bossiest, most badass little omega I've ever met. And brave. Also, a little scary," he adds with a soft chuckle that ghosts across Mickey’s lips.

"M’not that little, Gallagher," Mickey hums with a smile. "You're just a big ass fucker."

"I'm an ass fucker?"

"Shut the fuck up.”

"You're counting on that being the case."

"At this point it fuckin’ better be."

"Or what?" Ian teases, rolling his hips and grinding his bulge up against Mickey’s ass. "You gonna stab me?"

At that moment, a pulsing swell surges through Mickey's body and he feels the lick of flames scorching his insides again. He throbs with need and whimpers as pain shoots down from his stomach and through him until it reaches his pulsating hole. His jeans, already soaked, fill with more slick, and he throws his head back, crying out with want.

Ian grips Mickey’s chin with strong fingers and tilts his head back down. The dark-haired man is panting wildly, and when Ian looks down into his eyes, so blown out they almost look black, he realizes that he is panting too. They clutch onto one another, burying their faces into each other's necks, soaking in the alpha and the omega. 

Ian scrapes his teeth down Mickey's throat and across his chest, sucking one of his pink nipples into his mouth. Looking up to see Mickey ground his head back and gasp, Ian then uses his teeth to add a little tinge of delectable pain, causing Mickey to coo. Mickey can hear himself, but can't stop it; the sounds emanating from his body are completely outside his control. And he kinda hates them, but kinda doesn’t care.

Ian grabs Mickey's hips tight, rearing back and unfastening Mickey's jeans with deft fingers. Mickey shifts and furiously pulls his legs up to peel the drenched denim from his body along with his soaked boxers. With Ian's help they remove the offending material and discard them to the floor.

"You smell so fucking good," Ian growls again, his voice provocative, low and rumbling and dripping with lust. "I wanna taste you." His jaw aches with want and he feels saliva pool in his mouth.

Mickey places his feet up on Ian's chest, presenting for him, his breathing shallow. “Alpha, please.” It’s all he can manage, whimpering, breath strained and jagged, and Ian's alpha rages again.

Ian grabs Mickey's legs and flips him over on his stomach, his movements swift and sure. He pulls Mickey's ass up and reaches forward, pushing the omega’s head and chest into the mattress. Ian can hear Mickey's muffled cry as another wave of heat hits him. Ian drags his fingernails down Mickey's back and then grabs the juicy globes of his ass and pulls the cheeks apart. The first sight of Mickey’s tight pink hole, wet with slick, pulls a choked gasp from Ian’s chest. He immediately buries himself in between Mickey’s cheeks and rolls his face around, getting it coated with mouth-watering slick— _sugar, caramelized, candied, sweet_ —which is flowing out of Mickey freely. It _pours_ from him and drips down his balls and Ian wants every last drop. Not letting any more of it go to waste, he greedily runs his tongue all along the two tear drops of Mickey’s sack and up the seam. 

"Ian!" Mickey whines, pushing his ass back on the alpha’s face. He's yearning and hungry to be filled.

Ian clutches Mickey's cheeks harder, causing the immediate bloom of bruising beneath his fingertips and a pleasing yowl from his needy little Omega. _His Omega_. Without warning, Ian plunges his tongue deep inside Mickey's throbbing hole, causing another howl from Mickey that has heat pooling low in Ian’s belly and triggers an answering growl from his alpha. He alternates between sucking the slick from Mickey's entrance and fucking him roughly with his tongue, all the while digging his fingers deeper into the tender flesh of Mickey's ass, claiming it for his own.

Mickey is a squirming, whiny mess, and he reaches back and grabs a handful of red hair, pulling Ian forward, pressing him deeper. Mickey is on the edge, and with the next thrust of Ian’s tongue he starts to come. He gasps and yelps as thick streams shoot up onto his belly and down onto the bed. Mickey shivers and gnashes, but somehow his orgasm only makes his need worse. His guts are still burning and he whines desperately when Ian pulls his face away. 

Ian is so drunk and gone on Mickey—on his taste and his smell and the sounds that he makes—he can hardly see straight. He growls, barely recognizing his own voice, "You came for me, Omega." He praises Mickey and bites one of his ass cheeks hard then plunges a finger into his hot hole. 

"Fuck! Alpha!" Mickey is clutching the sheets with both hands, rocking his hips back impatiently and thrashing. "More!" he begs, sputtering desperately. "Please, Ian… _please_ —it hurts so bad. Fuckin’ need it. Need more..." Mickey is still babbling when Ian obliges, sinking two more fingers into him and biting down on the flesh of Mickey's other cheek. "Oh– oh _fuck_. Fuck!"

Ian pushes deep into the omega’s sopping wet hole. " _Jesus_ , Mickey. Your ass is so perfect," he mumbles between bites of his tender flesh, “so perfect…”

"Then put your cock in it, you ginger fuck," Mickey chokes out, gasping for air. 

Ian keeps finger fucking Mickey's ass and levels a firm, cracking slap on the omega's right cheek, causing the dark-haired man to bellow then mewl.

"Ian, please! M’fuckin’ dying!"

And it does feel that way. Mickey is coming undone with pleasure and tantalizing pain under Ian’s hands, but still the deep-seeded ache of his heat remains as well.

Ian pulls his fingers free and easily flips Mickey over so he's on his back again, but Mickey has other ideas and he lunges forward. He starts tearing at Ian's pants with such force it topples them off the bed and they land on the floor, Ian on his back and Mickey right on top of him. He straddles Ian's thighs immediately, ripping at the button of his pants furiously, unapologetically. Mickey is gnashing his teeth, distantly aware that he’s making ungodly noises like some sort of rabid beast but he doesn’t give a shit. He shifts his weight to make it easier to pull down Ian's pants, struggling and huffing. He sits back, growling in frustration.

"The fuck are you wearing, a goddamn chastity belt? Take these fucking things off now, Gallagher!"

Ian starts to roll forward to get up, advancing on Mickey like an animal stalking its prey, his eyes shining black and intensely focused.

"You're the most demanding, aggressive, bossy fucking omega I have ever met," Ian snarls, lips curling up in a predatory grin that shows off his canines. He grabs Mickey up off the floor once again and throws him down on the messy bed, shoving his own pants down and kicking them aside.

"Fuck you, you already told me that,” Mickey hisses. “Get a new tune and get your fucking dick out while you’re at it," he says through clenched teeth.

"Mmm…little omega. Gonna fuck you ‘til you come on my knot," Ian declares confidently, clutching his cock through his boxers.

Mickey is vibrating with the promise of it and lies back, spreading his legs for the alpha. “Fuck. I want that. Need that. You gonna do that for me, Alpha?” He gives a breathy moan as he unconsciously paws at his own cock, still painfully hard as it rests up against his belly.

Ian’s eyes are still blazing, but his tone sobers for a moment. "What about birth control?" he asks.

“Implant," Mickey grits out in irritation, sick of the delays and the teasing.

"How long ago?"

"Jesus _Christ_ , are you fuckin’ serious?” Mickey grouses, leaning up on his elbows. “I don't wanna fuckin’ talk about this! If I'd let any other asshole in here I woulda already been knotted once and into round two."

"It's important to talk about, Mickey."

"Jesus, you sure you're an alpha? 'Cos you're actin’ like a fuckin’ pussy right now!"

"Oh, I’m a fucking pussy, huh? Well maybe I should just go then…"

Ian’s words sound serious, but when he doesn’t make any move to stop stroking himself over the top of his boxers Mickey knows there's no real threat behind them.

"Fuck you, bitch, now I know you're fuckin’ with me,” Mickey spits out, barely able to contain his frustration, half sitting up. “You know what? Fine. Either quit your chitchattin’ and get on me, or get the fuck out so I can sit on a dildo ‘til I pass out. Or better yet,” Mickey challenges, eyebrows raised high, “why don’t ya go get that meathead neighbor of yours and bring him back here for me?"

Mickey’s trying to push the alpha’s buttons and as soon as the words leave his mouth it’s clear that he’s succeeded. Ian strips off his boxers in record time, his big, hard cock springing free and evoking a soft gasp from Mickey. Not only is he desperate and cock hungry, but he’s also never been with anyone as big as Ian. His body responds as well, his hole pulsating with yet another gush of slick and his own cock jumping against his stomach, leaking a steady stream of pre-cum.

Ian crawls onto the bed, grabs Mickey by the waist, and tosses him higher up on the mattress, manhandling him roughly. Intoxicated by Mickey's scent, full of jealous rage at the idea of anyone else being with his Omega, and rock hard with lust, Ian grips the other man by the thighs and shoves his knees up to his chest.

"Yeah, Ian, _please_. Oh fuck…" Mickey starts to mewl and beg again, so close to finally getting what he wants. "Fuck me. Please, Alpha." Mickey wiggles his ass involuntarily but is too gone to even care.

Ian lines his cock up with Mickey's quivering hole and presses forward, a rumble starting in his chest as Mickey begins to pant. He slides the tip of his hard dick through Mickey’s slick once, twice, then pushes in, breaching the tight band of muscle that opens up and envelops him. Both men gasp, the sound of which compels Ian to drive his length deeper until he bottoms out. 

"Oh, fuck!" Mickey throws his head back and lets out a deep, throaty moan, prompting Ian to bite the inside of Mickey’s milky white thigh and begin moving inside of him, pumping in and out of his griping hole, scratching that itch, relieving his Omega’s pain. "Don't stop– _fuck_. It's so fucking perfect," Mickey cries.

Ian starts to fuck into him harder, deeper, with more force, and Mickey reaches up to pull Ian down towards him, repositioning his legs around Ian's narrow waist, locking his ankles together and bucking up to meet Ian's thrusts. Ian groans with pleasure, accommodating the shift and rolling forward to meet Mickey's demand. When Mickey pulls him into a kiss, Ian’s rhythm stutters and slows for a moment—Mickey’s mouth is hot and wet and so fucking perfect he just _needs a minute_. Ian rolls his tongue around inside, finding Mickey's tongue and tangling them together. Ian pulls back to lick along Mickey's bottom lip and then grasps it between his teeth before resuming his punishing pace, pumping his hard cock in and out of Mickey's willing hole. 

Mickey claws at Ian's back as Ian keeps him pressed to the bed with his whole body and finally gets his hands in Mickey's hair. Ian's mouth travels across Mickey's jaw and down to his neck once more, smelling him, tasting him, feeling him. Mickey's racing pulse throbs in Ian’s mouth as his hole throbs around Ian's cock. His alpha is inflamed.

Mickey’s omega is likewise raging and wild, and he bites down on Ian's neck so hard he almost breaks the skin. He wants it, he needs it, everything his whiny omega has been fucking begging for. _He smells so spicy—cardamom, cinnamon, cayenne. So good. Feels so good. Never felt so fuckin’ good._ The thoughts flicker through Mickey’s head quick and sudden as he moans loudly in Ian's ear, loving the feel of being covered by his Alpha so completely while he fucks the ache away. Mickey licks at the wound he caused, then immediately starts biting and sucking on Ian's neck again.

" _Mickey_ –" Ian moans his name, repeating it over and over. It's all he can do to keep from marking him, from claiming him. His face buried in Mickey's neck and his cock buried in his ass, every cell in Ian’s body wants to bite down and break that bit of tender skin that would make Mickey his, filling his mouth with sweet syrup. He can almost taste his blood. He can taste his blood. _Oh, fuck! I can taste his blood._

"Do it," Mickey gasps suddenly, feeling the first breaches of broken skin. He pulls his lips away from Ian’s own neck and tilts his head to the side to give Ian better access. _Presenting_ for him. "Do it, Alpha. Claim me."

He wants to. _Oh god_ does he fucking wants to. But Ian shakes his head slightly and comes back to his senses just long enough to pull away and crush his lips to Mickey's instead of doing something they might both regret down the road—Mickey especially. 

"Why won't you do it?" Mickey asks into Ian's mouth. He’s gasping brokenly and looks close to tears. "Alpha, please— _please_ , Alpha."

Ian groans and has to squeeze his eyes shut tight again, fighting to keep his resolve. "My fucking sexy, grouchy, beautiful Omega," he pants against Mickey’s full lips between kisses, trying to reassure him. He runs his left hand up Mickey's flushed chest and towards his throat, wrapping his long fingers around it and holding it tight. 

Mickey gasps at the pressure on his throat. "But I'm not yours," he rasps. 

"Not yet."

Ian tightens his grip, his thumb pressing deeply into that unmarked bit of skin on the omega’s neck—a promise—and starts fucking Mickey even more furiously, impaling him on his cock and hitting Mickey's sweet spot on every thrust.

"Fuuu-uck!" Mickey’s face is screwed up in pleasure, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he gasps and writhes.

"Come for me, Omega," Ian whispers harshly against his ear, pounding him and tightening his grip just a little more on Mickey’s throat. "Come for your Alpha."

He breathes the words against Mickey's mouth and the dark-haired man tips over into the abyss, his cock going off like a rocket. Mickey lets out a long, strangled cry that fills the room as streams of cum pulse out of him, plastering the two of them together. Ian releases Mickey's throat and kisses his swollen lips and licks the salty tears off his face.

"You're fucking amazing," Ian whispers in his ear. He slows his pace but continues to rock into Mickey’s tight, wet hole. He feels his balls drawing up, the heat twisting in his belly ready to burst out of him, but he needs to wait, wait, wa– 

"Knot me, Alpha. I want your knot." Mickey has both hands in Ian's hair again, pulling on it, pulling him in. "Fuckin’ fill me up."

Mickey’s words are low and seductive and they travel straight to Ian's cock and his knot immediately starts to swell as soon as his Omega has given him permission to let go.

Mickey’s whole body is trembling now. Ian is buried to the hilt inside of him and Mickey already feels so stretched it seems impossible that Ian could get any bigger, _he_ can’t possibly feel any fuller, and right when he thinks Ian’s knot is as big as it can get, it seems to nearly double in size.

"Fuck, Ian!" Mickey bellows. His whole body feels tight. His skin. His limbs. Every muscle and tendon. "Oh, Jesus! I can’t– Ian, fuck, _fuck…_ "

“You can, Omega.” Ian whispers an alpha growl against Mickey’s temple. “You can do this. You can take my knot.” Mickey stops crying out and becomes determined to take all of Ian in just as his Alpha has told him to do, succumbing to the command of nature in that moment.

Ian's knot locks in place and he rolls forward to crush his lips against Mickey’s one more time as his cum bursts from him, gushing inside the panting, needy omega in pulse after pulse, swirling with Mickey's slick and causing Mickey to shoot another stream of cum up between them as more tears of relief escape from his eyes.

It’s quiet for a few minutes after that, the only sound in Mickey’s small apartment their harsh, synched puffs and gasps as they both try to remember how to properly draw air into their overworked lungs. Their bodies are twitching and spasming in intervals until one particularly violent shutter seems to pass right through Ian and into Mickey, finally bringing both of them back to themselves.

"Holy shit," Mickey laughs with tears still in his eyes which Ian sweeps away with his thumbs on either side of Mickey’s face. He feels Ian’s lips stretching into a smile against his own and opens his eyes just as Ian is doing the same. Blue on green.

Ian is speechless and can only return with a throaty laugh of his own and another deep kiss, humming against Mickey’s lips in agreement.

It’s quiet for another handful of seconds while their heartbeats start to settle and then Ian chuckles again.

“Told you I’d fuck ya ‘til you came on my knot,” he boasts playfully, eyes crinkling at the corners when it draws a snort and another laugh from Mickey. He can’t be sure, but he has a feeling that Mickey’s laugh is a rather rare thing, and something warm blooms in his chest at the sound of it. He wants to hear it all the time. Be the cause of it. Thinks he might be addicted to it.

Ian licks into Mickey’s smiling mouth and they hold their position while they wait for Ian's knot to go down, kissing each other deeply and passionately, Mickey occasionally teasing Ian with his tongue. 

When Ian is able to pull out, he flops down on his back next to Mickey, both of them panting and nearly out of breath all over again.

"Thank you," Mickey rasps.

"What?" Ian laughs and turns to look at him curiously.

"Thank you. For not, ya know, goin’ through with the mark," Mickey says shyly, thumbing at his nose. 

"It wasn't the right time,” Ian answers honestly, turning on his side and gently trailing his fingertips along Mickey’s arm. “You would have hated me. I don't want you to ever hate me."

Ian's face is open and honest. _So fucking sincere, this guy._

"I–"

Mickey isn't sure what to say. In the span of just a handful of hours they have already been through so much and it isn’t over yet. And he has to admit, if only to himself, that some of the things he’s been thinking and feeling, _is_ feeling, can’t just be explained away by his heat. _This fucking guy._ Mickey turns his head and looks at Ian, studying his face, every line and every curve. _This is fucked._

"So how–" Mickey searches for the right words, _any_ fucking words. "So if your suppressants are all outta your system, how are you, uh– you know…"

"Having some sort of restraint?" Ian inches closer. Rolling onto his side, he places his palm on Mickey's chest, just over his heart. He can feel it beating beneath Mickey’s warm skin, steady and strong. “I have no fucking clue,” he answers honestly. 'Cos I want you. Fuck, I've _been_ wanting you, for months now. So your heat, your fucking delicious scent–” he brings his nose to Mickey’s shoulder for a second and breathes deep before pulling back and continuing, “all of it—it should be making me act like a crazed, drooling beast. Like fucking Todd."

Mickey doesn’t miss the hint of a shadow that darkens the alpha’s eyes when he says the name. Mickey’s brow furrows as he unconsciously starts to trace each of Ian's knuckles with his fingertips.

“The fuck is Todd?”

Ian barks with laughter, the shadow passing as quickly as it had appeared. "My neighbor. You know, the one you sliced up and wanted to stab to death?" Ian's laughter is filling the room.

"Fuckin’ course his name is Todd," Mickey grumbles, pursing his lips with distaste.

"Do you not know anyone's name?" Ian asks with humor still laced in his voice. “Don’t know Todd’s. I’ve heard you call the super’s wife Betsy, Barbara, _and_ Bonnie. And a few months ago you yelled at my neighbor Cheryl and called her Kim Kardashian.” Ian chuckles again at the memory of that day. “I mean…that could have just been you being an ass, but I genuinely don’t think you know the name of anyone in this building.”

“Pfft.” Mickey rolls his eyes and settles his gaze on the ceiling when a sudden realization hits him. He stops tracing Ian’s fingers and presses his palm flat on top of his hand, whipping his eyes back over to the naked ginger next to him. “You been spyin’ on me, Gallagher?”

“What?” Ian’s eyes go wide like saucers and he starts to sputter, all alpha confidence completely gone as he grasps for words to explain. “No, I—well, see–”

Mickey hums and nods with a hint of a smile on his lips. “You totally have,” he decides calmly, turning his gaze back up to the ceiling. He resumes tracing Ian’s knuckles and long fingers, getting a tingle around his hole as his body remembers the way they feel inside of him.

Ian still doesn’t know what to say, but the fact that Mickey doesn’t really seem to care about his semi-stalkerish behavior has Ian relaxing back more comfortably into the mattress, the sudden panic that seized up all of his muscles just kinda bleeding away under Mickey’s touch. “I just–” he sighs, deciding on the simplest truth, “I just wanted to know you. _Want_ to know you. Been trying to figure out how to do that.”

Ian’s voice is soft and honest and it fills Mickey’s ears and washes over his brain, sending calm. Sending affection. Sending… The words get stuck right there and Mickey closes his eyes, feeling Ian’s breath on his temple, warm and rhythmic.

There is a long moment of quiet that isn’t silence. The type of quiet that is full and not lonely. It’s just Ian and Mickey listening to each other breathe and feeling each other’s hands, no other souls in the world existing. Quiet.

"Know _your_ name," Mickey says eventually, opening his eyes and looking down at their hands resting together on his chest. " _Knew_ your name. Remembered you from the old neighborhood," he admits.

"Oh yeah?" Ian's eyebrows go up in surprise. "I thought from the beginning there was something familiar about you. So you’re Southside? Makes a lot of sense. Everybody knows about the Milkoviches, but I don't remember you..." Ian's face screws up in concentration for a minute before his voice goes soft again and he inches forward more, tucking himself right up against Mickey’s side. "Seems like I should.” He nuzzles his nose up along Mickey’s jaw until he’s whispering directly in his ear. “Wish I did."

"Yeah well, I wasn't exactly the best guy to know," Mickey says soberly and starts to pull away, removing his hand from Ian's and sitting up. "And I split when I was fifteen, so…" he trails off.

Ian sits up too. "Why? Where'd you go?"

He's too eager, too earnest, and just because Mickey was fucking begging the guy to knot him less than half an hour ago doesn’t mean that he feels like handing over huge pieces of his life right now.

"Look, man, I really don't wanna fuckin’ talk about this.” Mickey scrubs a hand down his face wearily but can’t ignore the small stab of guilt he feels when Ian drops his gaze to his lap, his disappointment clear as day. An unfamiliar feeling Mickey doesn’t have a word for yet causes him to then actually _try_ for once, dipping his head to make eye contact with Ian again. “Hey, you said you’re an EMT, right? So, aren’t you like, an essential worker or somethin’? Shouldn’t you be out workin' and savin’ lives and doing all that fancy hero shit?” Mickey asks with a teasing smirk, trying to change the subject and put the focus back on Ian.

“I—uh,” Ian crosses his arms over his stomach and turns away, looking out the window by Mickey’s bed, then back to Mickey and back out the window again for an awkwardly long moment. “I’m kinda in between gigs right now,” he finally says, eyes flickering back to Mickey’s face for a second before he casts them back down to his lap. He looks uncomfortable and sad. His voice is almost a whisper. “It’s complicated.”

Mickey can tell that Ian also has something he doesn’t want to talk about. These are secrets they aren’t ready to share, but it softens Mickey to him again. He reaches out and scratches a fingernail through a bit of cum that’s dried on Ian’s skin near his hip—Ian’s or his own, he has no idea. “We're a fuckin’ mess, man. We should get cleaned up before round two hits, and I got a feelin' that ain’t too far away."

Ian’s head snaps back up and another smile starts to spread slowly across this face. "So you want me to stay?"

"Aye, don't get too excited. You fuckin’ started this, you gotta finish it. And–" Mickey swallows roughly then, his own playful smile slipping from his face. He shakes his head, reality crashing in again. "And I can't… I don’t wanna…I don’t wanna do this alone." _Fuck!_

Ian tones down his grin a few notches and nods his head. "Okay," he says simply, and reaches out and touches Mickey's hand where it rests on the bed. Mickey allows the contact for a few seconds but then pulls away, not knowing how to handle such a gesture of comfort and affection when he isn’t either blissed out on endorphins from having just shot his load or scorching and all fuzzy-brained with the heat from Hell. Ian frowns slightly but doesn’t say anything about it. "So let's get cleaned up,” he continues. “Should I go to my apartment to shower?"

"No!" Mickey all but shouts, eyes wide, suddenly alarmed, his breathing just a bit too fast. "Don't fucking leave. I– I dunno what’ll happen. I'm–" He stops short of saying exactly how he really feels and starts chewing on the corner of his mouth. _I’m scared._ _Mickey fucking Milkovich. Southside bruiser, teenaged thug_ — _scared. I’m scared, Ian. No, fuck that. Can’t do it. Can’t say it._ He shakes his head and looks away.

Ian puts up his hands, palms out and facing Mickey. "Hey, okay. So, shower here."

"You’re staying with me,” Mickey insists. “’Cos I ain’t risking that shit again. That pain fuckin’ sucked. Every time you moved away from me my guts twisted up and it felt like my fucking asshole was screaming." 

Mickey's tone is gruff again, almost angry, which just makes Ian even more smitten somehow. He starts laughing before he can think better of it. 

"Oh, you think my pain is funny, shithead?" Mickey grouses, quickly getting agitated which only seems to amuse Ian further.

"Screaming asshole?" Ian laughs again. "No, I don't think your pain is funny, Mickey, but I think _you’re_ funny." He tilts his head and beams brightly as Mickey flips him off with both hands. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up," Ian says again, still smiling as they move off the bed together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone. 
> 
> I want to start by saying thank you all for your wonderful comments and positive feedback. It has been great encouragement to get the rest of this completed and out to you.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Chapter 2. Only one more to go for this fic, but there is a distinct possibility that this is the first in a series. Who knows . . .
> 
> And, of course, thanks again, ms_gallavich, for being my beta. ❤️
> 
> P.S. I am such a novice I can't figure out how to get rid of the repeated note. 🤷🏼


	3. You Get What You Need

Ian discovers that when Mickey said he didn’t want him to leave, he really meant it. Like not leave his side—at all. He won’t even entertain the idea of Ian quickly running downstairs to his own apartment for more blankets and sheets so they can freshen up Mickey’s bed which is now covered in sweat, cum, and Mickey’s slick.

"No," Mickey shakes his head furiously between drags of his much needed cigarette when Ian suggests it. "No way. You ain’t fuckin’ leaving," he declares, nostrils flared and his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. 

"Okay, okay,” Ian immediately tries to placate, hands up. “You don't have to worry. I’m not going anywhere." He tries to reach out for Mickey to caress his shoulder in comfort, but the dark-haired man is already turning on his heel and stalking away—then doubling back after a few steps to grab Ian roughly by the wrist and drag him along to the bathroom, snuffing out his cigarette on the way.

Mickey lets the shower run until it turns warm and then climbs in, leading Ian in behind him. They both feel an immediate relief they didn’t even know they needed as the hot water licks at their bodies, relaxing sore muscles and cleansing wounds. They take turns quickly rinsing off and then Ian steps back and lets Mickey linger under the spray first. He groans loudly and almost whimpers with how good the water feels on his exhausted body, his head tilted back and his eyes closed.

Ian smiles softly, taking this opportunity to just admire Mickey’s beautiful features, enjoying the pleasant pull he feels in his chest as he watches Mickey’s lips part in a sigh and the last bit of tension drain out of his face. As he reaches for one of the washcloths Mickey had brought into the shower with them he is thinking idly how this is probably the most relaxed he’s ever seen the omega look in the short time they have known each other, and he thinks it is beautiful. He applies some body wash to the cloth and lathers it up, still smiling contentedly when he starts to wash Mickey's chest with gentle pressure.

"Aye, the fuck you think you’re doing?" Mickey starts, grabbing Ian's wrist. 

"Uh, I think that's pretty obvious…" Ian pulls out of Mickey's grasp, frowning down at him. He feels a chill creeping up his spine, despite the heat of the steam trapped with them behind the shower curtain. "What the hell is your problem, Mick?"

"Mick?" The shorter man scoffs in surprise, his dark eyebrows shooting up and then pulling down, furrowing his brow. "So what, you just got a nickname for me now? Like we're old friends or some shit?"

"Are you fucking serious right now?" Ian’s irritation is growing fast and he can't keep it out of his voice.

"We ain’t boyfriend and girlfriend here," Mickey gestures between them aggressively. "I’m a grown-ass man, I don't need you fuckin’ bathing me."

Ian grits his teeth, seething, finding it more than a little ridiculous that they’re having this fight while standing naked and wet in the middle of the shower that _Mickey_ had literally dragged him into not even five minutes before.

"Seriously?” Ian puffs out loudly and then lowers his voice. “Just shut the fuck up," he sighs out the words, shaking his head incredulously. 

"Ex- _cuse_ me?" 

Mickey’s eyebrows are flying again as Ian’s chin juts out defiantly.

"I said: Shut. The _fuck_. Up."

Ian grabs Mickey by the shoulders suddenly and shoves him back against the cool tiles, pressing the full length of his naked body against Mickey's wet and slippery one, his chest and hips pinning Mickey in place. Mickey reaches up to grab onto Ian's biceps, Ian’s forearms flush against the wall on either side of his head, boxing him in, and Mickey just looks up at him—eyes wide, mouth open—momentarily stunned.

"I think after begging for me to fuck you and milking my knot the least you can do is let me call you 'Mick', _Mick-ey_."

Ian spits out his name, making it sound ugly, and glares down at him for another few seconds before Mickey has to close his eyes, attempting to escape the heat of the alpha’s gaze. He feels Ian using his body to press him more firmly against the tile, but then the alpha surprises him by shaking off Mickey’s hands and backing off him completely. Mickey opens his eyes just in time to catch the washcloth Ian tosses at his chest. He catches a glimpse of his face before Ian turns without another word and moves to get out of the shower, the need to be away from Mickey seemingly greater than any desire to clean himself off at that moment.

Something in Ian's face and the movement of his body, strangely resigned and defeated, causes a sudden intense pain in the omega’s chest. The sour scent of sadness, hurt, and disappointment rolling off the redhead in waves probably doesn’t help either, and Mickey feels like he’s been sucker punched in the gut. _He hurt his Alpha_ —and that hurts him.

"Wait!" Mickey grabs Ian's wrist, but this time to pull him in, not push him away. "We– I…"

Mickey is looking up at Ian's face, still drawn but expectant, searching for some small glimmer of hope. Mickey can only shake his head in the face of it, his mouth hanging open, waiting on the words that are stuck stubbornly in his throat. Words that he doesn’t know how to say because he’s never had to say them before. Never wanted to say them before. Not like this. Not like how they should be said.

"We need to clean those scratches," he finally manages, gesturing at Ian’s neck, his voice quiet and husky. He knows it’s not enough but at least Ian is still standing there. At least it’s _something_.

Mickey swallows thickly and looks away from the redhead’s gaze, but tugs on his arm and pulls him closer. They are both standing sideways in the stream of water when Mickey takes the soapy cloth and gently dabs at the slashes that he had lapped at earlier with his tongue. Ian winces slightly from the sting, but makes no sound as Mickey continues to clean the wounds.

After a minute Mickey steals a surreptitious glance up at Ian’s face and finds the alpha regarding him silently, his eyes a bit glassy, almost like he’s on the verge of tears. Mickey feels a jolt of panic twist in his gut. _Jesus Christ he better not fucking cry. I will kick him out of this shower so damn fast…_ But even as Mickey is thinking it he recognizes that it’s miles from the truth. He already knows that his pushing and repeated rejections have wounded Ian, and the tears would just be the icing on the cake. A nasty, bitter tasting, guilt-filled cake.

Not knowing what else to do, Mickey takes the wrist he has a grip on and places Ian’s hand on Mickey's own hip, then reaches up and squeezes the nape of Ian's neck while continuing to wash him—his neck and shoulders, then his muscular chest, his hard stomach. Mickey’s surprised that action of scrubbing Ian clean is actually very calming—repetitive soft, circular soothing motions, and the sight of the foam cascading slowly down Ian’s body is remarkably comforting as Mickey works to wash away all the sweat and cum and slick, all the blood and hurt. He is taking care of Ian, and he feels a tingling at the crown of his head, something that tells him that this is right. That this is what he should be doing.

Eventually Mickey's eyes can’t help but trail down to Ian's cock which is soft now, but still magnificent. When he looks back up he finds Ian watching him with a steady but cautious gaze. He almost looks afraid, and Mickey feels another pang in his chest because he knows he’s the cause of that. 

"You took such good care of me, Red," Mickey admits suddenly, searching in Ian's eyes. "Didn't try to hurt me, brought me food, did your EMT shit for me,” Mickey pauses and drops his voice, “fucked me so good…” One side of Mickey’s mouth quirks up at that before his face gets serious again and he continues, “Kept me safe,” he whispers, “and I just– I don't…" Mickey shakes his head again, his nostrils flaring as he exhales sharply. He drops his gaze, looking back at the scratches marring Ian's pale skin, soap suds sliding over the angry red marks as water ricochets up off their chests to spray against Ian's neck.

Ian cautiously—ever so cautiously—presses his body to Mickey's again, keeping a gentle grip on his hip and looking down at Mickey's soft, swollen lips. He brings his head forward and gently nuzzles his nose along Mickey’s cheek.

"It's okay," Ian breathes next to Mickey's temple. "We don't have to figure it all out right now."

Ian wraps his arm all the way around Mickey's waist and plants a kiss into the wet hair on the top of his head. Mickey tilts his face up and Ian can read the want and need back in his eyes, though it still sits half-hidden behind a heavy curtain of confusion. Ian reaches up with his free hand and wraps his fingers around the nape of Mickey’s neck, cradling his head while he rubs soothing patterns into Mickey's skin where his hand holds his hip. He smiles sweetly down at him, not rushing, not pushing, and after a minute he is rewarded for his patience when Mickey responds by pulling Ian down for a kiss. Soft and warm, with no urgency or desperation. Just lips enveloping each other, sucking softly and slowly with gently tangling tongues.

Mickey pulls away after some time, breathing heavy but regarding Ian soberly. "We gotta get cleaned up before the hot water runs out." 

"Kay," Ian nods, releasing Mickey from his hold and letting the shorter man maneuver him around to finish soaping up his arms and back, across his buttocks and down the back of his thighs.

Ian is facing him again, already struggling to keep his breathing even when Mickey reaches down and begins to wash the front of his thighs, grazing his cock which begins to wake up from the attention, twitching and becoming firm. Mickey cleans the tight red curls all around it and in between his thighs where cum and slick have dried and Ian has to close his eyes and press his lips tightly together, _shuttering_ as Mickey rubs soap against his testicles. His eyes fly back open at the wet splat of the washcloth hitting the tub floor and then Mickey is reaching for his half-hard cock. The omega wraps his small fist around him, running his soapy hand up and down Ian's shaft ever so slowly, and the air that Ian’s been holding in his lungs for the past minute bursts past his lips in a breathy exhale.

Ian can't help but look down and watch as Mickey pulls on him, making him harder and harder. He drops his forehead against Mickey's and they just _breathe_ together, every exhale from Mickey an inhale from Ian and then back again, and in this moment Ian doesn't think there is anything better than Mickey’s warm breath in his lungs, or anything hotter than watching him run Ian’s shaft in-between his tattooed fingers—F-U-C-K—and twisting his fist around it.

"You took such good care of me," Mickey says again, whispering into Ian's mouth, "gonna take care of you too. Promise."

The words are so low and so fucking sexy, the sentiment behind them so kind and sweet, that Ian almost comes right then, his cock so hard it hurts. 

" _Fuck_ ," Ian moans, low and breathy, dipping down to suck on Mickey's bottom lip—what has quickly become one of Ian's favorite body parts of anyone, anywhere, ever—before releasing it with a wet pop.

Mickey takes the shower head down off the wall and moves his other hand across Ian's body to help rinse away any traces of soap, saving Ian's cock for last and paying it extra special attention. 

Eventually Ian chuckles lowly, smile still a bit cautious. "I think it's good, Mickey."

"Gotta be sure, Firecrotch," Mickey replies, replacing the shower head and sinking to his knees. He looks up at Ian and smirks as he digs his fingers into the redhead’s ass cheeks. "I don't like the taste of soap."

Mickey bounces the head of Ian's cock on his tongue and then laps at the leaking slit. He swirls his tongue around, teasing him, and then locks eyes with Ian as he wraps his lips around the tip and sucks up his pre-cum.

"Oh fuck!"

Ian lets out an inhuman groan that causes Mickey's omega ass to instantly respond, slick coating his thighs and joining the mess still there from earlier. Mickey plunges his head down, not having the patience to tease anymore, just hungry for it, wanting to get as much of Ian's cock down his throat as possible.

"Oh my god, Mickey…oh god–"

Ian’s voice cuts off in a choke and he has to plant his hands on the wall so his knees don’t buckle, shivering as the dark-haired man starts moving his mouth up and down the length of his cock, feeling the head of it press against the back of Mickey's throat. Mickey's lips are firm and he's using the tip of his tongue along the underside of the shaft to add that extra bit of delicious pressure. His fingers continue to dig into the flesh of Ian's ass as he slides his warm, wet mouth further down Ian’s length until his nose is nestled in his red pubic hair and the last few inches of Ian’s cock are buried in his throat. He settles for a moment and then flexes his throat muscles, swallowing around him, and Ian throws his head back and lets out a howl so loud he’s sure it can be heard from the street. He drops his head back down a second later, watching as Mickey hollows out his cheeks, getting a firm grip on him with his mouth and then applying a brutal amount of suction. Mickey begins to pull back slowly, moving his head from side to side and moaning around Ian's throbbing cock. 

"Fuck, Mickey! _Fuck_."

Mickey squirms on his knees, his ass practically wagging with pleasure at the sounds he is able to draw out of the alpha using just his mouth. Ian is quickly coming undone and it’s driving Mickey closer to the second wave of his heat, making Mickey start to _ache_ , his body expelling another gush of his natural lubricant which drips down between his legs. 

Ian brings one hand off the wall and grips the crown of Mickey's head as he plunges down on his cock again, repeating the action with the same rhythm and fierceness over and over, increasing his pace. Ian looks down into Mickey's eyes, desperate and a little crazed. He pulls at Mickey’s hair roughly, possessively, and he growls, his voice not his own.

"I can smell you, Omega."

Mickey responds with a hungry whine and presses his face all the way to Ian’s base, rooting his cock. Ian holds Mickey's head in place, his legs tensing up, and with Mickey’s steady gaze holding him, blue eyes blinking up at him— _once, twice_ —Ian bellows loudly and explodes into Mickey’s mouth, shooting his load down Mickey's throat in warm, pulsing streams. 

Once he’s spent, Mickey pulls off of him slowly and Ian’s knees really do buckle this time, but his Omega is already up on his feet, there to wrap his arms around his waist, steadying him. Ian drapes his own arms over Mickey’s shoulders and cradles his head as he crushes his lips to Mickey's, tasting traces of himself in Mickey’s mouth which make his alpha growl with approval.

Ian is still panting shallowly when their lips finally part and Mickey leans back just slightly to take in the blissed out look on his face, his omega preening at the obvious signs of Ian’s pleasure.

"Holy shit, Mick."

Ian doesn't realize he's said the name that set off the omega earlier, but it doesn't slip past Mickey. It gives him pause, but the feeling rising in his chest isn’t tight and uncomfortable this time but soft and warm. _Familiar_. He smiles up at the clueless alpha. 

"Did I take care of you?" Mickey asks, all faux innocence, running his teeth over his bottom lip and trying but failing to hide his self-satisfied smirk. 

"Mmmm oh my god," Ian moans his affirmation, long and drawn out. He laughs raggedy as he presses his face to Mickey’s neck and inhales deeply, unable to stop himself from dragging his tongue a little possessively over _that spot_ just once before he pulls back and looks down at Mickey, whose pheromones are starting to overwhelm the small space. "But we really have to get you cleaned up now ’cos…"

"‘Cos I'm about to start yippin’ and yowlin’ and beggin’ for your knot?" Mickey offers matter-of-fact.

"Yes, that," Ian laughs, grabbing the other cloth from the shower caddy and covering it with body wash.

And Mickey lets Ian wash him this time, saying nothing but maintaining eye contact that is intense and full of heat. Ian only finally breaks the charged silence when he runs the soapy cloth over Mickey's cock.

"Need to come back to this later. I think it needs some attention.” He pauses and puts his lips barely on Mickey’s and whispers into his mouth, “And I want to taste it."

Mickey feels like he’s been on edge forever, but those words spark a flame in his belly that make him rock hard in an instant. Mickey yowls a little bit and Ian smiles, part teasing and part promise, and then rinses off the front of Mickey’s body, giving his pillowy lips a light, chaste kiss.

Ian abruptly flips Mickey around then, taking his wrists and pressing his palms to the wet tile in front of them. Mickey grunts out in surprise and then leans his forehead against the wall and quietly moans, hating how much he loves to be manhandled by the alpha, while marveling at how he can go from soft and sweet to hard and domineering in the blink of an eye.

Ian cleans Mickey's neck and down his back. He soaps up the globes of Mickey's perfect ass and crouches down to clean the backs of his legs and the inside of his thighs, even as a steady stream of fresh slick is erasing all of his careful work. Ian then pulls Mickey's cheeks apart and runs the soapy cloth between them. Satisfied he is slippery with soap and slick, Ian stands back up and starts running his fingers from Mickey's balls to the top of his crack and back down. He hovers over the entrance to his hole, pressing his fingers around and against it but stopping just short of breaching the tight ring of muscle. 

Mickey makes a pained sound in the back of his throat. " _God_ , Alpha, whaddya doin’?" he gasps raggedly, his whole body quivering. 

Ian wraps his other arm around Mickey's tummy and presses into him. He moans gruffly in Mickey's ear, his breath hot and uneven. "Making sure you're clean for me, Omega."

Mickey completely falls apart at that, arching his back and pressing his ass down on Ian's long fingers, forcing two of them deep into his pulsing hole. Ian lets Mickey fuck back on him for a few thrusts, but then clamps down on the back of Mickey's neck with his teeth and pulls his fingers free. He ignores Mickey's protesting cries and proceeds to rinse off the shaking, wanting man in front of him.

“Fuck you, Gallagher,” Mickey pants softly, breathing hard, but Ian can hear the smile in his voice.

The water starts to chill and Ian quickly turns off the taps. He grabs a towel from the rack and starts to dry Mickey off. His touch is gentle again, and he kisses every part of Mickey as he goes. Finally, Ian wraps his lips around Mickey’s chin and gently nibbles and sucks as he secures the towel around Mickey’s waist. 

"Your turn." Mickey pulls away smiling and reaches for a second fluffy gray towel. He proceeds to dry Ian in the same way, mimicking his actions by kissing every bit of freckled skin he swipes the towel across until he gets to Ian's left nipple which he just can't resist putting between his teeth—tugging slightly, then sucking, then licking, _then_ kissing. Ian gives a low throaty growl which pleases Mickey greatly, and he pulls back and grins up at him wolfishly. 

They start to climb out of the tub when a loud gurgle, followed by a long, low rumble, cuts through the small bathroom, causing them both to stop mid-step.

"What the fuck was that?" Ian looks comically alarmed. 

"Fuuuuck, that was my stomach," Mickey groans and grabs at his belly. "Haven't eaten since this morning." 

The two men lock eyes for a second and then both burst out laughing.

"C’mon,” Ian chuckles, “I brought food. We can heat it up."

Ian ushers Mickey out of the steamy bathroom and the shorter omega instinctively wraps his arms around the alpha’s waist. He nuzzles his nose into Ian’s clean skin, scented with his own Irish Spring body wash, but still full of the red spices that are Ian, when much to his dismay he once again starts to purr. _Fucking purring._ He’s aware of the fact that he had purred earlier when Ian was nursing him, but he had physically been in danger then and unable to really control any of it. But Mickey can’t stop now either, just like he can’t seem to stop clinging to the man he had spent months trying so desperately to avoid—and he’s not even sure that he wants to. _Jesus Christ._ _What is this fucking redhead doing to me?_

The short walk to the kitchen is clumsy as hell with Mickey attached to Ian’s side, but the alpha is actually relieved that with Mickey’s face half-pressed into his chest he misses the way Ian’s own face explodes with pleasure when he feels Mickey start to purr against his bare skin. Ian looks down at Mickey tucked in snugly under his arm and grins harder, glowing.

As Ian roots around in the kitchen he tries to ignore the saliva starting to pool in his mouth which has nothing to do with the steak and potatoes he’s warming up in Mickey’s microwave. Mickey's scent has been growing steadily stronger since all the teasing in the shower and it’s causing Ian's alpha to react in kind, pushing out a cloud of his own pheromones in the small space. The two scents mingle to create an intoxicating cocktail and he knows that means Mickey is going to be a writhing mess soon. It’s also making Ian’s own body pulse—his skin feels like it’s practically vibrating and all the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck are charged. The air around them feels _electric_.

Mickey moves his nose from where he’s had it buried in Ian's armpit and rolls his face across Ian’s right pec, swiping his tongue across the nipple quickly. He stands on his tiptoes and presses his face right into the side of Ian's neck and inhales deeply. Mickey's eyes roll back in his head and when he moans Ian is sure it is the sexiest thing he has ever heard, his dick twitching and tingling in agreement. 

Ian takes a deep breath, gathering strength, knowing he has to stay in control. "C’mon, we need to eat," he insists, grabbing Mickey around the waist and practically carrying him to the small yellow Formica table where he sets down the plates he has managed to balance awkwardly in his free hand.

"Fuck no.”

Mickey rips off Ian's towel and then his own, pushing Ian down onto one of the chairs and straddling him so quickly that the redhead has no time to even mount a protest. Mickey grinds down on him roughly, holding onto the back of the chair. He's leering at Ian, eyes full of lust.

"Mickey, we can't eat like this,” Ian grunts out, grabbing onto Mickey’s forearms. “You need to sit on your own chair."

"No, put your cock in me." Mickey is defiant and gnashing his teeth, and even after Ian squeezes his eyes closed to block out the way Mickey is looking at him—like he wants to devour and be devoured—Ian is having a really hard fucking time remembering why he shouldn’t. He can feel Mickey’s slick wetting his lap and his smell is getting even stronger, filling his nostrils and dancing across his tongue and making his head all fuzzy and– "I just need your cock in me and we can eat."

Ian’s eyes snap open and he pulls his head back and looks at Mickey like he's crazy. “What?”

"I'm starting to fuckin’ ache, Gallagher. Just need you in me to make it stop so I can eat." Mickey is sobered up a little and pleading his case. "C’mon, man, just put the chair sideways and we can both reach the table."

"This is ridiculous…" Ian starts to protest, but he sees that Mickey is really starting to hurt, and he can feel that his skin is starting to burn up again, and every molecule of Ian’s being just really wants to feed him and care for him and make sure he gets everything he needs. _His sweet and salty Omega._ He stands up with Mickey still hanging off him, pulls the plates together and closer to the edge of the table, and sets the chair sideways—no small task with Mickey moving his lips around Ian’s neck and breathing heavily against him. Ian almost comes undone.

As soon as Ian sits them back down Mickey takes the redhead’s cock and lifts himself up just enough to be able to rubs the tip back and forth through the slick dripping from his hole until Ian is raging hard. It doesn’t take much.

"Oh fuck yeah," Mickey sighs, sinking down on Ian and taking his full length with no hesitation. 

"Unnghhhh–" Ian chokes out a strangled sounding groan, unable to contain himself. His lungs feel like they’re in a vice grip, and he can hardly breathe. Mickey's tightness is surrounding him. Hot. Wet. _Squeezing_ him. He closes his eyes and almost forgets why they're sitting there. "Christ– you feel _so fucking good_."

"I'm hungry," Mickey hums against his lips.

 _This little fuck._ Ian forces his eyes open and sees Mickey smiling down at him like the devil, panting shallowly.

"I don't know if I can eat like this,” Ian grunts, fingers digging into Mickey’s hips and toes curling into the linoleum, just barely resisting the urge to buck his hips up off the chair. “I just want to fuck you.” Ian is gasping for air. “It’s all I can think about." He starts to tremble and growl.

"Shhhhh…" Mickey rubs his jaw along Ian's, scenting him. Calming him. "I'm gonna ride you into the bed when we're done, but ‘member you said you wanted to feed me? M’hungry now, Alpha." Mickey whispers all of this against Ian's skin while he surrounds him with his essence.

Ian takes deep gulps of the omega-heavy air all around him. "Okay…" he breathes, feeling a little more in control, “…okay.”

"Hungry." Mickey runs two fingers through the mashed potatoes and scoops some into his mouth, sucking them off his finger suggestively. "Mmmmm…"

"Not helping!" Ian sputters.

Mickey scoops more potatoes off his plate and brings them up to Ian’s lips this time. "Maybe I need to feed _you_."

Ian’s jaw seems to drop open of its own accord and Mickey pushes his fingers into Ian's mouth, the dazed redhead readily sucking down on the digits and slowly pulling off of them with a pop. 

" _Jesus_ –" Ian closes his eyes again and breathes deep, in through the nose and out through the mouth. When his eyes blink back open it’s to find Mickey still watching him, licking his lips, lids heavy and pupils completely blown.

"Hungry," Mickey says again, baring his smaller but still menacing canines and emitting a low growl.

Ian shifts in the chair, determined, siting up straighter and wrapping his arms around Mickey's waist to hold him tighter, more firmly to his lap and on his cock. He picks up a fork and shovels up some more potatoes to feed his demanding and impossible Omega, who swallows them down eagerly. Ian repeats this a handful of times until Mickey takes the fork and does the same for him, never once breaking their heated eye contact. After a minute Mickey lets the fork clatter down to the floor, leaning forward suddenly to lick some stray potatoes off of the side of Ian's mouth and trail his tongue across Ian's lips.

Ian shudders. "You got to stop doing shit like that."

Mickey just responds by smiling fiendishly and saying, "I need some meat."

"Jesus, you’re too fucking much right now," Ian groans, throwing his head back before looking over at the steaks. "I don't know how we’re gonna cut those things in this position."

"Why do we need to cut ‘em?" Mickey looks at Ian like he’s an idiot.

"What?"

Mickey grabs the rare and bloody steak off his plate, holds it with both hands, and bites into it, tearing off a chunk of meat with a low rumble in his throat. It's primal. It's animalistic. It's _so fucking hot_. Ian is shocked at how aroused he is by it. It also increases his own appetite tenfold and he picks up the second steak and follows Mickey’s lead, putting his canines to work. They are both groaning and snarling, barely looking at one another as their eyes fall closed and they rip and tear at the meat, and for a few minutes Ian is actually able to forget that his throbbing, rock hard cock is buried deep inside Mickey’s deliciously tight ass. 

Mickey tosses the remainder of his steak back on his plate, licking his fingers and his lips and regarding Ian silently, his head tilted slightly to the right. As if feeling the omega’s eyes on him, Ian stops eating and looks back at Mickey, tossing aside his steak as well. They stare, and they pant, and they growl lowly together, bodies charged and brimming with primitive lust. Mickey starts to wiggle impatiently on Ian's lap and Ian grabs both sides of Mickey's face and tilts his head back, dragging his tongue up his chest and throat and chin where juice and blood have dripped down from his mouth. 

"Fu-uck.” Mickey gives a throaty groan and grinds down on Ian's cock, clutching the alpha's shoulders roughly.

Ian rights Mickey’s head and attacks his mouth and then they are nothing but clashing tongues and teeth and lips. Ian twists Mickey’s dark hair up in his fingers, pulling on it harshly, and Mickey reacts in kind, rolling his hips and dragging his nails down Ian's chest, breaking skin and evoking a yowl from his mate.

_His mate._

"C’mere!" Ian releases Mickey's mouth and hair and hooks his arms under his thick thighs, prompting Mickey to cling to his neck when he stands up. But instead of taking the few strides it would take to get them to the bed, Ian slams Mickey down on the table, Mickey's ass half landing in the leftovers and sending the rest flying to the floor along with the plates and the unused utensils. Fuck the broccoli. No one was going to eat that shit anyway.

"This table ain’t made for this," Mickey cries in surprise, a look of alarm momentarily breaking through the lust in his eyes.

"Of course it isn't. It's a table. They aren't made for fucking on," Ian growls as he throws Mickey's ankles up to his ears. "But I'm gonna fuck the shit outta you right here anyway, Omega." His eyes are wide and wild and he looks half possessed, and it drives out that fleeting bit of fear from Mickey in an instant.

"Oh, fuck!" Mickey screams as Ian starts pounding into him, shocked by the shrillness of his own voice, head thrown back and eyes round and staring up at the ceiling unseeingly. "Shit. Don't stop. Fuck, Ian. Alpha, oh fuck… _fuck_!"

Mickey is trembling beneath Ian, his cries renting the air and filling the entire apartment. Ian moves his hands from Mickey’s legs, but keeps them propped against his torso. He reaches down and grabs Mickey's forearms, Ian’s arms then framing his thighs. Ian then uses Mickey’s arms to anchor himself and pull Mickey’s body towards him as his engorged cock aggressively drives into his wet, welcoming hole over and over again. He occasionally presses forward and makes a circular gyrating motion that causes Mickey to arch his back and buck wildly. The table is shaking violently and squeaking in protest as Ian continues to pull Mickey’s body towards him while he thrusts his own body forward.

Ian is growling loud and steady now—it rumbles through his body and down into Mickey's, making the omega cry out again. Ian releases Mickey’s arms and reaches up for Mickey’s ankles, spreading his legs so Mickey can then wrap them around the alpha’s waist, locking his ankles tightly at the small of Ian’s back. Ian then hoists the dark-haired man up, Mickey instinctively circling his arms around Ian’s neck and holding on tight. Ian keeps fucking him where they stand, bouncing Mickey on his cock and biting down viciously on one of his shoulders until Mickey yelps loudly.

"Was that too much, my little Omega?" Ian gnashes his teeth next to Mickey's ear as he roughly kneads Mickey's ass. 

"Fuck!" Mickey gasps with choked, wet breath. A flame has been relit down deep in Mickey’s belly that makes him feel like he is burning up from the inside out, but in a way that he hopes will never end.

"Was it?" Ian's alpha is in control and is compelling an answer from Mickey, his breath hot in Mickey’s ear and his fingers digging even harder into the cheeks of Mickey’s ass. "Answer me, Omega—now!"

Mickey grabs onto Ian's hair viciously and yells into his mouth, "Fuck you! No! _Fuck_!"

"Good," Ian snarls, swinging them around and easily walking the short distance from the kitchen to Mickey’s bed, keeping them locked together as he brings them both down to the mattress, Mickey pinned underneath him again.

Something has happened—Mickey can’t even pinpoint exactly when—but a switch has been flipped and Ian is wild and intense. Mickey’s stomach _clenches_ with the possibility.

“I’m here to take care of you, Omega. Was _made_ to take care of _you_. And _you_ were made to take care of _me_.” Ian’s got Mickey’s head cradled tightly in his giant paws, his eyes so pulled they’re almost black as he stares down at Mickey intently, fiercely, his words rumbling through gritted teeth. His voice sounds almost other-worldly and is coming from someplace deep inside of him.

Mickey gulps, stunned for a moment. Ian’s earlier shifting between gentle and rough, submissive and dominant, had filled Mickey with pleasure, being unpredictable and exciting and ultimately putting Mickey in charge. But _this_. This Ian is full force, raw and commanding. And it makes Mickey want _more_. More than he’s ever wanted anything or anyone.

The burning in Mickey’s belly grows. He presses his heels into Ian’s lower back, legs still wrapped tightly around Ian’s waist, and twists red locks in between his fingers. Mickey lifts his head while pulling Ian’s down and runs his teeth along the side of Ian’s neck that is free from scratches, causing Ian to pant and rumble. Mickey presses his mouth against Ian’s ear and snarls, “I am yours, Alpha. And you. Are. _Mine_.”

The omega’s words dissolves the final bit of restraint that either of them is holding onto. They cling to each other by their hair, ruthlessly pulling and tugging as they use their teeth and tongues to devour one another—faces and necks and shoulders. Ian pumps into Mickey mercilessly. It feels to Mickey like Ian’s cock is somehow bigger than it had been before, _harder_. It is _so_ hard. And it’s fucking him wide open, deeper and deeper. He can feel his warm slick gushing out around Ian as Ian moves inside of him and he moves against Ian, their rhythm fierce and beastly, unrelenting.

They grunt, growl, gnash, and bite. Claw, howl, bark, and roar. At some point Ian flips them over, staying connected but putting Mickey on top.

“Ride me,” he commands in a low but powerful voice.

Mickey gasps out a feral laugh that is full of more aggression and hunger than mirth. He bares his teeth and smiles wide, then slams his hands down on Ian’s chest, digging his nails in and eliciting a sharp hiss from the redhead who reaches for his Omega’s throat.

_His Omega._

Mickey grinds down on Ian with force and starts to rock back and forth with fast, furious movements as Ian puts light pressure on Mickey’s throat. Mickey leans into it and begins moving up and down on Ian’s cock, clawing deeper into the skin of Ian’s freckled chest until he feels light-headed and blinks down at his Alpha, who releases him at once. Mickey gasps for air, pulling it into his greedy lungs, then drops his whole chest down on top of Ian’s, sinking his teeth into his jutted chin. Ian responds by wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist, locking them together so tight that bruises are already forming on Mickey’s pale skin where Ian’s fingers are gripping. Mickey is immobilized from the waist down, and Ian plants his feet firmly on the mattress so he can start fucking up into Mickey’s tight, messy hole.

Slowly pulling himself back, Mickey runs his teeth down to Ian’s chest, sucking and biting ferociously, then licking the wounds before moving to the next spot. When he tastes blood on his tongue he sits up, throwing his head back and fixing the ceiling with a smiling howl. Ian is immediately chasing him, rising up and catching Mickey’s mouth in his, sucking on his lips and licking past them, tasting his own salty blood on Mickey’s fangs. Mickey laughs into Ian’s mouth and they clamp onto each other with their lips, Mickey continuing to grind down on Ian’s lap and Ian continuing to press up into him. 

Mickey, unable to prevent himself from surrendering completely to his omega now, tilts his head to the side and whines, “Claim me.” He’s panting desperately, locking eyes with his Alpha while he presents his neck, _begging_. “Knot me and claim me, Ian. Bite me. Mark me.” The omega is snarling again, demanding the alpha claim him as his own. “Make me yours, Alpha. And I will make you _mine_.” His voice is raspy and he starts moaning and crying out as the alpha increases his speed and the force of his thrusts in response.

Ian feels himself unravelling, his eyes zeroed in and locked on the thick, pulsing cord in the omega’s neck, everything else blurring around the edges. The silver hue from earlier is back and he’s scrambling for anything to hold onto while his mind shuts down, the omega writhing on his lap and begging him, begging him, begging, _begging_ –

“Mickey?” he breathes, searching.

Mickey shakes, his entire body convulsing from the ungodly pleasure he is feeling. “Fuuuck!” he screams, dropping his head and sinking his teeth into the skin right above Ian’s heart. Right in that spot. _The Spot_. The spot where omega marks alpha. The place where he lays his claim.

He starts to break skin and Ian cries out, stopping him from completing the action.

“Mickey!” he yowls, and it _sounds_ like Ian again, but when Mickey looks up the alpha’s eyes are still black and he’s baring his fangs. Ian’s blood is glossy on Mickey’s lips and Ian kisses him again, ruthlessly. Unrelenting. 

“Why won’t you do it?” Mickey whines into Ian’s mouth. “Don’t you want me? Don’t you want me to be yours?” They are both panting and Ian can feel that his knot is about to grow. 

“Fuck, _yes_ ,” Ian just manages to grit out, flipping Mickey onto his back without warning. Ian slides his arms under Mickey’s and hooks his hands over the top of his shoulders, pounding into him furiously. Words have all but abandoned him until only one remains.

“Mine… _mine_.”

Ian’s growl comes from deep in his chest and it vibrates the both of them violently. He bares his fangs and scrapes them along Mickey’s collarbone, leaving a trail of red welting skin behind, and he moves them up the right side of Mickey’s neck, biting, but not breaking the skin. His mouth makes its way over to the left side, finding the scent gland that fills his nostrils with Mickey. _Burnt sugar, sweet vanilla, smoky._ It’s entrancing and all-consuming and Ian’s lips find the pulsing, pleading spot on Mickey’s neck where he can make the omega belong to him. Be his. It’s pulsing into Ian’s mouth and he feels his knot begin to fill.

Mickey presses his head back into the mattress and moans loudly as he feels Ian swelling inside of him, every inch of his body on fire. He feels Ian’s teeth on him and the sharp bite as they start to break his tender skin. Mickey is clawing Ian’s back and choking out unintelligible words that sound like pleading but are filled with pleasure. Ian’s knot locks in and swells bigger and bigger. It feels _impossibly_ big, even bigger than the first time, and Mickey loses focus on his need to be marked and squeezes Ian with his thick, firm thighs as he starts to shake apart.

“Ian!” Mickey cries out to him. “ _Jesus_ —what the fuck?” He’s writhing from the deep pressure of the ever increasing knot, he pulls on Ian’s hair roughly, gasping for breath, trying to find something to ground him. He’s shaking and shaking and it’s so much, it’s just _too much_. “Jesus, Ian, it’s too– _fuck_ , it’s too fucking big…I can’t…can’t…”

Ian’s eyes snap open, hearing and smelling distress coming from his omega, and he pulls back from where he has begun to mark the writhing, desperate man beneath him to see that Mickey’s face is twisted in panic, his jaw tight with tension, his eyes unfocused and rolling wildly. He’s gasping, _gasping_. And desperate. Ian immediately stops moving against him and crashes their lips together, breathing life back into Mickey’s lungs. Ian then rubs his jaw along the omega’s and brings his lips back to Mickey’s to try to sooth the other man, who is now whimpering. “Shhhhh, it’s okay, Mickey. It’s okay. You _can_ …know you can…” Ian’s voice suddenly soothing, filling Mickey with some calm.

Ian reaches down between them to grab onto Mickey’s long-neglected cock. It is rock hard and angry red. Finding plenty of lubrication on and around them, Ian covers his palm in Mickey’s own slick and wraps his hand back around Mickey’s length, finally getting the smaller man’s eyes locked with his. “Was made to take care of you,” he gasps brokenly, “and you are…made for me.” He starts pumping Mickey’s cock in his fist as his own cock begins to pump cum into Mickey’s needy ass.

Mickey sobs and grabs Ian’s neck, lifting up to meet Ian’s mouth again. Mickey feels his balls tighten and that wave of twisting, white-hot heat moving down through his stomach and groin.

“Come for me,” Ian orders into Mickey’s mouth between sloppy, rough kisses. “Come,” he growls, and Mickey’s cock bursts, spraying thick spurts of cum all over the both of them as the last of Ian’s knot blasts inside of him. 

“Fuck! Oh _fuck_ , oh god…” Mickey shouts and babbles and has to wrap his arms around Ian completely as he shakes and shakes, unable to control the violent spasms wracking his body while everything behind his eyes goes white. And Ian holds him through it, squeezing him tight and burying his nose in the sweet spot behind Mickey’s ear, letting both his knot and Mickey slowly come down. “Oh my god,” Mickey eventually chokes out again, voice wrecked.

“Shhh…” Ian soothes, whispering in his ear. “You were so good, Omega. You were fucking amazing. So amazing, Mickey.”

Ian supports Mickey’s head and helps him relax back down against a pillow. Ian runs soothing hands up and down Mickey’s trembling body and kisses his temples and then his forehead. Gentle kisses. Soft. So soft, that it’s like a completely different person than the one who was fucking him into oblivion just minutes before. 

Ian starts to pull back, but Mickey tightens his grip around his shoulders, panicked. “No!” He swallows roughly and closes his eyes, feeling vulnerable and raw. The idea of Ian separating his body from Mickey’s in this moment frightening, Mickey swirling with emotions and need. He feels open and exposed and the thought of Ian being out of his body and away from him makes him feel sick. He already feels abandoned by the very idea. It feels as though all of their nerve endings are connected at every point and Mickey knows that he wouldn’t be able to bear them being ripped apart right now. Like he can tell he wouldn’t survive it. Mickey can feel hot tears on his face, but he is still too far gone to care about what that means or how it makes him look. He squeezes his thighs and arms around Ian tighter. “Not yet. I’m not ready yet.”

Mickey feels Ian’s weight start to press back down on him, feels where they are still connected, and remembers to breathe.

“Okay, Mickey, it’s okay,” Ian murmurs soft, so soft, so delicate. “Don’t worry. I’m right here.”

Ian gently lowers his full weight on top of Mickey, doing his best to send out reassurance and comfort and love. _Love?_ He folds his arms over the top of Mickey’s head, enveloping him, and rubs his jaw against Mickey’s, scenting him and murmuring honey-filled words that start to calm Mickey and have him relaxing into the alpha’s arms. He lays sweet, tender kisses all over Mickey’s face, pressing his lips to his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his fluttering eyelids. When Mickey’s lips part with a breathy puff, Ian presses a kiss to each corner of his mouth, the wide crease above his upper lip, the tiny patch of stubble just beneath his full bottom lip.

Mickey sighs deeply and buries his nose into Ian’s neck, inhaling, filling his lungs and letting Ian’s warm, spicy scent send calming signals to the rest of his body. In time his legs drop from around Ian’s waist, and he lets the alpha pull out of him, ever so slowly, and it leaves him feeling so painfully _empty_ —but then Ian is still there, his warm body half draped over his own, and his fingers still threading through Mickey’s damp hair, and his chapped lips still leaving a trail of kisses along Mickey’s flushed skin.

Mickey opens his eyes and Ian is still _right there_.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” the redhead breathes the moment their eyes meet, like he’s just been bursting to say it for the past five minutes. He cups Mickey’s face and doesn’t give him any chance to scoff or roll his eyes or curse him out like he wants to—just carefully takes Mickey’s lips with his lips, licking into Mickey’s mouth, pushing his tongue against Mickey’s tongue and letting them taste each other. He pulls back and kisses Mickey’s neck and chest and back up to his mouth. They sigh together into the next kiss.

Eventually Mickey breaks their lips apart and holds Ian’s head above his. “What happened that time?” Mickey is searching Ian’s eyes. “Where’d you go?”

Ian lets out a ragged breath. “I think I went into rut.” He looks down at the dark-haired man and shakes his head. “I’m not sure. That’s what it felt like.”

“‘Cos of me? Did I do that?” Mickey furrows his brow.

“My body did that. _Our_ bodies, together, did that.” Ian places another kiss on Mickey’s lips, this one chaste and delicate. “Are you okay?”

Mickey gives a half laugh. “Yeah, man, I’m good. Real good.” He smiles. “Guess it’s only fair since it’s your damn fault I went into heat. Payback, bitch,” he smirks playfully.

Ian has a teasing comeback on the tip of his tongue when his eyes drop down to Mickey’s neck and he becomes distracted by what he sees.

“I…” Ian reaches out, finger tracing lightly over the faint bruising _there_ , the small nicks where Ian’s teeth had started to break the skin. Ian realizes then that Mickey is mimicking the gesture, his thumb gliding over the indentations he’s left on Ian’s left pec, just above his heart. “I don’t know how I didn’t go through with it.” Ian whispers, “I really wanted to— _fuck_ , did I want to—but I’m glad I didn’t.”

Mickey drops his hand from Ian’s chest, face falling. He looks away from Ian and swallows hard.

“Hey,” Ian grips Mickey’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and turns his head back to face him. “You didn’t wanna do that. You didn’t want _me_ to do that.”

“I know,” Mickey is quick to agree, voice harsh, “I fucking _know_ , alright? But you being fuckin’ glad you didn’t still feels like– like you don’t fucking _want_ me,” he struggles to explain. “And my omega ain’t handlin’ that rejection too well right now right after I let you fuck the life outta me and rearrange my ass on that monster fuckin’ knot.” Mickey’s eyes are wet and his bottom lip is trembling.

“ _Mickey_ –” Ian puts his hands on either side of Mickey’s face, green eyes bright and fierce, almost angry, as they bear down on watery blue. “I want you _so_ fucking bad. You have no idea how bad I want you— _have_ wanted you. Christ–” he laughs then, a quick burst, “I wanted you before I was even sure you were the omega I was looking for. I was dragging my nose across every surface of this building trying to sniff out who was filling my nose and mouth with warm sugar everywhere I went every damn day. But even before that I wanted _you, Mickey_. So when I realized you were that omega, I was fucking out of my mind happy. I wanted you twice as much.” Ian’s face becomes serious again, though his eyes are softer now when he continues. “But if I had done that, if I’d let you do that, we would never know if this is what we—what _you_ —actually want. We’d never know if this is meant to be or it’s just what has to be because we marked each other.”

“A mark can be broken,” Mickey responds flippantly, eyes shifting away. He doesn’t want Ian to see his face, sure it would betray his feelings—that the very idea of breaking a mark that Ian had made actually causes him pain in his chest. 

“Is that what you want?” Ian regards him with a small, sad smile. “You want to mate just to find out we don’t want to be together—that we don’t love each other—and then go through all the hell of breaking that mark? You and I both know that isn’t so easy.”

“No,” Mickey admits quietly, “that’s not what I want.”

“Tell me what you want then,” Ian says softly, lacing his arm behind Mickey’s neck and laying his head down next to the other man, present but not pushing, not pulling.

“I…” Mickey has to stop and sigh, focusing on the ceiling.

 _The fuck do I want?_ Mickey hasn’t thought about what he might want in a really long time. He isn’t sure that “want” is something that has every really extended past him _wanting_ a Snickers bar, or _wanting_ to watch Under Siege instead of Above the Law. None of his major life decisions have ever been about want. They’ve only been about need. And a lot of things weren’t even choices at all.

The circumstances and chain of events of his life have never before brought him to a point where he’s actually had the opportunity to decide on something in his life that he might _want_. His choices have always been about the need to build a life away from where he grew up. About needing to try to stay invisible, stay out of trouble. Needing to maintain distance from others so that no one got hurt. _Hurt_. His life choices—which of them have not been built on some kind of hurt or fear or the need to avoid both? Ian knows about none of that, and if they were what— _together?_ —he would have to.

Mickey would have to tell him about his father almost beating him to death, and the Youth Rescue that found him. He'd have to tell him ‘cos, fuck, that's who raised him. It was no choice. They took him in, helped him recover, tried to teach him and counsel him, and now he does the same for the next generation of kids like Mickey, whose shithead dad could have maybe handled the disappointment of a son who was born an omega bitch, but not one who turned out to be a pillow-bitin’ faggot too.

Getting away, staying away—these were not wants, they were needs. Mickey wanting something—something big, something real—had never been an option before. And now here's this giant, gorgeous, dopey guy, who's been lightly stalking him for what has apparently been months, who brings him food and care packages, who wants to defend and take care of him, who fucks like a beast, but is gentle and sincere, who wants Mickey...

The thoughts swirling in his head make him dizzy. _What do I want?_

He thinks of all the times he's stolen glances of the redhead, inhaled his scent in the laundry room, listened to him chitchat with a neighbor. Mickey’s eyes shift to the window close to his bed and he thinks about the handful of times he’s woken up at dawn to sneak a smoke in his apartment and caught glimpses of Ian returning home from work, blue collared shirt wrinkled at the bottom where it’s been untucked from his pants. Where he’s looked out and seen the redhead smile and wave at the mailman and one time help the super carry in a new air conditioner for one of the other units, muscles rippling and glistening with sweat. Where he once stood and watched the tall, pale, goddamn gorgeous idiot stretch out his legs on the sidewalk and retie his sneaker before starting up a steady jog and disappearing around the corner.

Mickey tries to sort through all the wild, unfamiliar feelings that have been twisting in his gut and in his chest for hours—for _weeks_ , for fucking months, probably—but he can’t seem to turn feelings into thoughts and thoughts into words and words into sentences. He has to at least acknowledge these feelings to himself. Something that is way harder than it sounds. He has to admit that he's wanted Ian and that he wants him now, but what does that mean? And having never had the sort of life where wanting something like a real relationship with someone—someone who really wanted him back—was ever entertained, admitting as much now is not only foreign but frightening. And maybe dangerous. Would that mean they would go on dates? Make each other dinner and watch movies and make out on the couch? Would Ian want to introduce Mickey to his family? His friends? What would he think when he realized Mickey had no family or friends of his own? And being mated— _Jesus_ —he can’t even wrap his head around what that would look like, but he knows that Ian would have to have intimate knowledge of Mickey’s deepest secrets. The ones sealed up tight and stored away, because those secrets, so dark and so ugly, would also affect Ian.

 _Mated_. He really doesn’t know what else it would mean, but he knows that Ian saying he was glad not to have completed his mark rips at Mickey's guts, and the idea of being without the redhead right now brings a lump of emotion to his throat that threatens to travel its way up behind his eyes and turn into tears. _Fuck_. He wants Ian. But fuck if he isn't scared and confused and lost. 

He turns his face back to Ian’s and a single, traitorous tear escapes from his swimming eyes, balancing on the bridge of his nose for half a second before forging a path down its slope. Before Mickey has the chance to angrily brush it away Ian is there, his long thumb catching it and mindlessly running the salty liquid across the pads of his fingers. His thumb then traces the path of the tear and then trails down to the cleft between his nose and lips, across the middle of Mickey's lips and then to the tip of his chin. And Ian smiles. A soft smile. A reassuring smile. _I got you_ , it seems to say. Mickey's breath hitches and he relaxes his head against Ian's arm and sighs.

“I don’t know,” he admits finally, blue eyes searching green. “I want you, but fuck if I know what that means.” It’s honest, at least, even if it makes Mickey kinda sad and more than a little frustrated, it’s the most honest he can be right now.

Ian is quiet at first, still smiling gently with his thumb still resting on Mickey’s chin. He shifts closer, and then his lips are pressing firm against Mickey’s temple and he is speaking close to his ear, voice soft, so soft. So gentle.

“So why don’t we just get through this crazy heat-rut-cycle-shit first and then see if we can’t figure out what it means? Together.”

Mickey feels a warmth entering his chest that he’s felt more than once over the past few hours and his mouth twitches up into a smile. “Yeah,” he says, rolling onto his side so that his nose is only an inch apart from Ian’s, “I’d like that.”

He leans in and kisses Ian this time, closing his lips around the redhead’s and gently pulling on them with his own.

***

They are both exhausted and sleep is close, but Ian is over the nasty, wet and crusty bed, and convinces Mickey that they need to strip it and at least put on some fresh sheets.

“You’re not fucking leaving though.”

The left side of Ian’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah, Mick, I got that from the last time.”

Mickey pulls out a raggedy assortment of bedding: a blue and white striped top sheet with a few mismatched pillowcases, a fitted sheet that’s lost all its elasticity around the edges and is therefore no longer fitted, an old threadbare Bulls blanket, and a small patchwork quilt—beautiful, but obviously made for a five year old. Ian’s eyes move from Mickey’s face down to the bedding that’s been placed in his outstretched arms and back again, a playful smirk on his lips and his brows raised in silent question.

Mickey just rolls his eyes and shrugs as he closes the closet door. “I dunno, man.” He turns and walks away from Ian, who is left giggling.

They make the bed together and clean themselves off as best they can without actually getting back in the shower. They don’t bother with clothes, knowing they’ll only be torn off their bodies again with the next wave of Mickey’s heat or Ian’s rut, but they do make sure to drink about a gallon of water each before collapsing next to each other in the clean bed.

Ian pulls the top sheet and mismatched blankets over them and cautiously kisses Mickey’s shoulder as they settle in. They lay on their backs, each staring up at the ceiling for a few long seconds until Ian turns on his side towards Mickey and rests his arm above their heads. Without a word, Mickey grabs Ian’s other arm and pulls it around his waist as he rolls to his side, fitting himself in against Ian’s body. He can practically _feel_ Ian’s smile as Mickey lets their fingers lace together against his stomach and it makes him smile too.

Ian wiggles in even closer, pressing his chest flush against the shorter man’s back and slipping his knee between both of Mickey’s. The heat of their bodies seems to melt and fuse their skin together at every point of contact, and though it should be unbearable, neither of them even thinks of pulling away. Ian kisses the back of Mickey’s neck and their pheromones tangle together and make a sweet perfume that quickly lulls Ian to sleep. Mickey can feel the redhead twitch as his body gives in, and Mickey pushes back gently into him and pulls his arm up even tighter around him, Mickey’s eyes still tracing the pattern of freckles on the back of Ian’s hand even as his own eyelids get heavy and begin to droop.

He’s drifting off, but something is preventing him from surrendering completely. Some feeling that is confusing and unfamiliar, though far from unpleasant. Just one more foreign acquisition to add to the emotional menagerie that has been setting up residence in his head and chest and stomach all day. It is a warmth in his belly, but far different from the burning ache of his heat. A feeling like he’ll never be hungry or alone. Like he’ll never hurt or be desperate. It’s a fire, but it’s not blazing and out of control, but rather calm and steady, comforting. Mickey feels like he is wrapped up in warmth and completely grounded. _What is this?_ He feels his head swim as his sleepy mind struggles to identify and name something he doesn’t think he has ever felt in his whole life, but is acutely aware he has always needed, always craved.

Mickey feels… _safe_. He feels safe, and he knows it’s because of the man asleep at his back. He realizes that everything Ian has done for him all day has been to make him feel safe. Ian kept him protected. Protected his mind, protected his body, protected his heart. He realizes at that moment that he has never actually felt safe, maybe never truly been safe, until now. With Ian wrapped around him, one leg between his two, arm around his body and warm breath in his ear, Mickey Milkovich finally feels _safe_.

Almost like he knows what Mickey is thinking, like maybe he’s feeling the very same thing, Ian pulls the dark-haired man even closer to him, humming softly against the back of Mickey’s neck as he continues to sleep. It sends a soft glow out from Mickey’s chest through to his extremities, drawing him closer to oblivion, deeper into Ian. Mickey lets his eyes fall closed, ready to finally surrender. With a gentle smile, he relaxes his whole body against Ian's, breathing deeply and inhaling the alpha one more time.

“Safe,” he breathes out, and joins Ian in sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everybody. 👋 
> 
> I don't know what to say. I'm beside myself with all the love and support that has come from all of you. 💓 I hope you enjoyed the last chapter. I don't know about you, but this actually seems like just the beginning for our Omega!Mickey and Alpha!Ian. 🖤💛
> 
> And once again a big thanks to my beta (no pun intended) Sam for putting up with my inconsistent spelling of "come" and "cum" 😳 and my tendency to switch tenses multiple times in one paragraph, letting me draw on her ideas, and helping to contribute to this little labor of love. I honestly would have never written and even thought of putting this up if it wasn't for her encouragement. 💞
> 
> I have a Twitter now if anyone is interested. @Chat_noir91213. I tried to do the link, but that didn't work out. Lol.
> 
> P.S. Again I couldn't get rid of the end note below. WTH? 🤷

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Everyone! This is my first time writing fanfic and my first attempt at ABO. It is mostly written so it shouldn't take me long to get the rest of it out. I've had some wonderful help from my friend, Sam, and want to thank her for her editing skills. I couldn't have done it without you!!!
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys it.
> 
> P.S. anyone who signed on for the smut, don't worry it's coming. No pun intended.


End file.
